


The Sword of Elendil

by gandalfsapprentice



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Family Dynamics, Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Good villain(s), Characters - New interpretation, Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Drama, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Economics, Subjects - Explores obscure facts, Subjects - Geography, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Medical/Healing, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Plants/Environment, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Every word counts, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Good use of humor, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 109,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gandalfsapprentice/pseuds/gandalfsapprentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tale of the young Aragorn facing the challenge of his new name and identity: what does it mean to be the Heir of Isildur? A story of personal growth, friendship, love and betrayal. A canon-mindful AU.  Adult themes and battle scenes.</p>
<p>Winner, Second Place, Longer Works, MEFA 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arathorn's Son

Aragorn stood at a bay window in the suite of rooms in Elrond's House where he and his mother had lived for the past eighteen years, looking out at the beauty of the Hidden Valley for one last time. At dawn he would turn his back on his childhood home to seek the Rangers of Eriador. He wondered only that he felt so little regret at the prospect of parting from all whom he had loved and who had cared for and taught him as a child and youth. Certainly the bright eyes of Arwen Undómiel could have distracted him from his single-minded intention, but after their bitter quarrel they now met only on terms of icy civility.

The golden sunlight caught at the winking green stones of the serpent's eyes on the Ring of Barahir, now on his right hand. It was a token, Elrond had said, of his kinship with the royal House of Finarfin and of the friendship of Man and Elf. Reaching across the table before him, Aragorn ran two fingers down the worn scabbard containing the shards of Narsil, the sword of Elendil, the greatest of the sons of Númenor. He picked it up, drew the blade, and slid out the broken tip. The bronze hilt was a thing of beauty, the still-sharp blade traced with runes. A red gem glowed at the hilt's end. 

He raised the hilt into the late afternoon sunshine to set the light gleaming along the two feet of blade still attached. Once Narsil had shone with the light of the sun and moon, invoking their power against the Shadow; now it was broken, its power extinguished. He turned the blade in the light, examining the glints along the etching, the keen edge, and he thought of the man who had last carried it. _Arathorn son of Arador, my father. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, last of the line of Kings in Arnor._

In a way, the new name—or, he corrected himself, his real name—shocked him even more than the title. It had never occurred to him, beyond an idle musing such as any curious child would have, that Estel was not his birth name. Now it seemed like it should have been obvious. 

_I am Heir of Isildur Elendil's son of Númenor, the last direct descendant in Middle-earth of Elros, Elrond's own brother, who chose life with the Edain when the Elder King gifted the Island of Númenor to Men._

How many sleepless nights had he passed as a boy, watching the moon and stars in the night, wondering, imagining kin and a place in the world outside the Valley! He had always known his mother to be of Dúnedain blood and a remote descendant of the fading royal line, but she would tell him no names of her family. And his father? "He was an honorable man, Estel," they would all say, "and some day you will know his story." The questions that were neither asked nor answered had bred in him a habit of secrecy about his innermost feelings and thoughts. 

Sometimes dreams would wake him, nightmares of death that he now knew were more than a child's night terrors. Often he dreamed of Isildur, leading the ships from Númenor, fighting, dying; sometimes he saw warriors falling to Orc arrows and spears. Were the visions some ancestral memory, or foreknowledge? He did not know.

Not even in his wildest fantasies had he thought that his father was hidden because the Dark Lord sought to kill all those of his blood. He hoped rather than believed that he would prove capable of the great challenge of this heritage. It did not help that roiling beneath these already uncalm waters was the longing, bitterness and anger of a disappointed love too painful to be borne. She had turned him away, left him to sink beneath turbulent waters, alone. _She need not worry that I will vex her further. I will leave. She has made it clear that she is done with me._

He heard his mother enter the room behind him. Without turning, he asked, "Are you quite sure you will not come with me, my lady mother?"

The soft step of her light shoes and the brush of her skirts whispered as she came forward to stand at his side. She laid a hand on his arm. "Yes, my son, there is no doubt in my mind. I could just as well ask if you are quite sure you must leave in such haste. I know it is not Elrond's wish."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes, but kept his gaze on the sword. "Perhaps not, but it is mine." He turned the question back to her. "You are young still, you could marry again, have more children. I need no longer be your main concern."

She shook her head. "I have no desire to marry again, and you are child enough for me, my Estel."

He looked at her, the mother he thought he knew, who had kept so many secrets from him. "Do you still mourn him so much, then?"

"It is not that. We were married only four years, so many years ago, and much of the time he was away in the Wild. It seems like a small part of my life now."

"You could return to your parents' home, and I will be there too, when I am not away myself."

"My parents will come to see me here," she answered, "once they know it is possible, and they can make a long visit. It is a hard life in the Angle, not one that I miss, though I miss the people that I love. Sometimes when the light is right and the scent of late summer is in the air, I almost hear the calling of the falcons that nest in the walls of the Keep, and the buzzing of my mother's bees in the clover." She smiled at the memory. "But the happiest years of my life have been here, so I will stay. Elrond has offered me a place here till the end of my days, and you can visit me in the Valley when you can come. This is your home too, after all."

"I will certainly visit, as I may," he said. "But it seems to me that I have no home, or, rather, I have yet to find one." 

Grasping the sword hilt firmly, he stepped into the middle of the room, well away from her as she stood, hands folded, at the window, watching him. He raised the blade along his sightline and swung it as he would any sword to test its temper, checking the pull on his hand, arm, and shoulders—far too light, of course, with the broken length. But once it had been a sword of perfect balance, he could feel it in the heft. He held up the hilt before his face, pointing the blade up, as if in a salute. "It is strange, to have this in my hand," he murmured.

Gilraen said, "Elrond says that one day it will be reforged. When the Ring is found again, he says."

"So he has told me," he answered. "And he has been saying it for three thousand years. The problem, as I see it, is that no man will be worthy of wielding it when the time comes." He lowered it to his side.

"It is a sudden burden on you, albeit a great honor." 

He returned to her side and, with a sharp thrust, slid the blade to the scabbard before answering her. "The Dúnedain do not even know my face, and Elrond tells me that many believe the Elves have taken me for good, or that I am dead. That there is bitterness between Rivendell and the Angle."

"Then, perhaps, you can see the wisdom of waiting till word can be sent to Thurnost that you are coming?"

"No," he said, frowning. "It is time to take my own life in my own hands. Elrond has done enough for me."

"Well, then," she said, with a soft laugh. "I know better than to begin a battle with your iron will. I have no doubt but that they will know you in the Angle."

Not for the first time he felt a dismaying sense of unreality. "I resemble him that much, then."

"Oh, yes. Taller, and with eyes and character that are very much your own, but otherwise the acorn from the tree, as they say. You are more slender, but I suspect that is only because you are young and have not yet reached your full strength. Arathorn was already thirty-five before I was even born." She smiled up at him, and lifted a hand to brush a stray lock of tangled hair off his brow. "But he never had this untidy hair. His was straight and well-behaved."

Aragorn laughed, and tugged gently at one of her braids. "We've always known where I got that," he said.

She smiled again, but then her head drooped and she said sadly, "How I will miss you! It used to seem to me that the years wouldn't go fast enough till the day you would finally know your father's name. I looked forward so much to the time when we could speak openly at last."

_And how do you think it was for me?_ he thought, before shame wiped it away his bitterness. _Always she has known me, both the restlessness and the longing, and always she has known that I keep my secrets. And so has she, although against her will, I now know._ He said, striving to banish the harshness from his voice, "Do you think knowing a name makes all the secrecy go away? I do not remember him at all. He is just that, a name. I am sorry, mother, but so it is."

Wincing, she covered her face in her hands and sighed. "I know. It is the only part of your coming here under Elrond's protection that I regret. You asked for him as a child when we first came, being too small to understand what had happened, but we could not encourage the memories. We had to make you forget him." Her voice caught in her throat, and for a moment he was afraid she would weep. "It broke my heart. But Elrond insisted we must keep you as secret as possible, to guard your life, even from our own people. He feared treachery, or carelessness. So much was at stake. I did not dare question him—we had lost much in those years. And Elrond said he knew as a certain fact that Sauron was searching for the Heirs of Isildur. He said it had to be."

"Yes," Aragorn said. "So he has told me."

"Such a price," she said. "A father lost to his son, and then there are our kin. My parents. My brother, Iorlas. And Arathorn's family—your blood kin, Estel. Ariel, Arathorn's sister, and Beleg—who is not only your uncle by marriage but was a sworn sword brother of your father's as well—must have children now. Hallor's son must be grown up. My own brother must be married too, and have a son of his own. In the early years we sometimes got news of them through the Elves, but they know nothing of us."

Silent for a time, Aragorn thought back on the last few weeks. Since the day he had first learned his name, his mother had spoken of these things several times, as if to make up for the silent years: It seemed to comfort her to talk of her lost kin and that decision made so long ago. But for him the past and the future loomed behind and ahead like an empty black void, full of questions. He said, "The past is the past. My concern is now. I must come to know my own kin and my own people."

"You will find a way," she said. 

"Elrond says Hallor has served as chieftain, that he is Arathorn's cousin."

"Hallor is an excellent man," Gilraen said. "You will like him."

"Why should I take his authority?" he asked. "He has the knowledge and the trust of the people, and all I have is a father I do not remember and a name I have just learned. And a broken sword." 

"You will learn what is needed," she said. "You have been carefully taught here, better than would have been possible in the Angle. I know this is true. You will learn what it means to be a king."

He smiled, shaking his head. That seemed so fantastic as to be foolish. "Sometimes I think I have dreams of Arathorn, but I am not sure. Maybe some of it will return to me when I am back where I was born."

Hope bloomed in her eyes. "That may well be. All I can say is, he loved you very much."

He did not know how to answer. He picked up her hand and kissed it. "I have to believe that, I suppose. But somehow I doubt it will ever be very real to me. I'm still getting used to being called by a new name."

She said, "It is your name. Arathorn had a time of foresight before you were born. I will never forget it. We hoped for a son, of course, but Arathorn was sure of it. 'The child will be Aragorn son of Arathorn,' he said. He said it meant 'lord of courage' and that you would need this even more than most. But to me, you will always be Estel." 

"To you, yes. But I am Aragorn now," he said to her. But he thought, _A man is much more than a name and a father. In that way I remain Estel, son of Nobody, foster son of Elrond. It is past time to find out who this Aragorn son of Arathorn really is._

He thrust Narsil in its scabbard through his sword belt. "I must finish packing now, and say my farewells. I'll return to you when I can." He kissed her cheek and strode from the room.

Striving to master the mother's worry that assailed her, Gilraen followed his tall, strong figure with her eyes as he disappeared through the doorway. _I have always known this day must come._  
She thought back to the day she had arrived in Rivendell, her small son sleeping in her arms. All the long way from the Angle, the sons of Elrond rode one before and one after her, guarding her, as if the legions of Sauron himself assailed them, or so it seemed to her. Never before had she thought of herself, a young woman safe within the walls of the Hidden Fortress of the Dúnedain, as a target of the Dark Lord's hate.  
  
" You are the mother of the Heir of Isildur," Elladan had said, "and perhaps you bear Arathorn's child in your womb."

"How did you know?" she had blurted out.  
  
But Elladan did not smile. "I did not know, but my father feared for you."  
  
Oh, how sad those days had been! Willing strength into her aching body and heart, she had visited Beleg on his sickbed, begging for the tale of Arathorn's end. But Beleg could not remember. His eyes dark with pain, his graceful face twisted in anguish, he had only grasped her hand and moved his head in the smallest gesture of denial.  
  
"You and your son must come to Rivendell with us," Elrohir had said. "Speak to no one. We will go tonight."  
  
But she had already begun to bleed. She lost the baby. _A son or a daughter? I will never know._

But the small son grew into a sensitive and imaginative boy and a bold and restless adolescent, to become a warrior, a master swordsman and a skilled woodsman, educated in the Elven languages and lore, and a fine singer. He looked older than his twenty years, and since the age of fifteen had been riding out with the sons of Elrond, hunting the servants of the Enemy in the lands beyond Rivendell. He had faced battle and death in the Wild, witnessed first-hand the ugly brutality of Orcs and other evils of the Shadow. And he knew also the bewitching loveliness of Rivendell and life with the Elves. But the province of Men—neither one nor the other, but that thorny mingling of both—this he did not know except from stories and the few men, women and children—none of them Dúnedain—that he had met while scouting in the Vales of the Anduin. Aside from such encounters at war he had never known any of his kind besides his own mother; he had never known chronic illness or old age in his friends and family. 

As a boy he had had few other children to play with; the Valley's three Elven children, with their strange, extended childhood, lagged far behind Estel's stampede into manhood. Not but that he had had playmates: The carefree and joyous Elves matched even the audacious high spirits of Estel himself. 

But just a few weeks before, he had returned from six months of hunting Orcs with a troop of Elvish warriors. Something had changed in that journey. He had fully proved his courage and skill at arms, and the boy was gone. To her mother's eyes, he shone with a manly confidence and a dawning authority that he had, as yet, had little opportunity to test. Tears suddenly blurred her sight as she thought of how proud her husband would have been to know their son.

Elrond had seen it too, and it did not surprise her that he had chosen that day to tell Estel of the responsibility and duty of his birthright and title. For a brief time her son had seemed to grow even more as he absorbed the truth of who he was, even as he struggled with the enormous responsibility that had fallen onto his young shoulders. Then came the sudden silence. And she discovered, after persistent questions, that her son had fallen into a hopeless love for Elrond's own daughter. 

Gilraen did not know exactly what had happened between them—he would not tell her—but it had turned Estel's world upside down. That she knew from the few words he had reluctantly spoken to her about the matter. Gilraen wished she could simply dismiss it as a young man's infatuation, except that she knew her son too well. She feared his intensity, and she feared for his happiness—insofar as a Ranger could expect any happiness to speak of. 

_Aragorn, lord of courage. A fine name for Arathorn's son._ And with a cold stab of fear she wondered if her husband had been more right than anyone knew. 


	2. Taking Leave

Aragorn found Elrond in the healer's wing, preparing medicines. " _Atarinya_ , I've come to say my farewell," he said, choosing the High Elven word to show his respect and love.

Elrond looked up from a pestle of fragrant dried herbs. " _Senya._ I had thought to see you off in the morning."

Aragorn shook his head. "I mean to leave before first light."

Rising from his work table, Elrond gazed at him in grave silence before speaking. "As you wish." He waved a hand at the crumbled leaves in the shallow stone dish. "I have one more gift for the Dúnedain. I will have Eludor bring it to you when it is prepared."

"You are generous, father. Already I bring many ointments and powders, fine blades and needles and a purse of gold coins."

"It is only what I would have sent all these years, but for the estrangement between Rivendell and the Angle. That will soon be mended."

"I hope so," Aragorn said.

Elrond set his hands firmly on his foster son's shoulders, and the deep wells of wisdom that were his eyes glistened with feeling. Falling into the formal language that he used to master his feelings at moments of great emotion, the master of Rivendell said, "Aragorn son of Arathorn of the Dúnedain are you, and my beloved son Estel, and in you rests all our hope for the Age of Men that is soon to come. Use well the Black Hand, the sword I have given you, and may Brelach bear you to victory in the battles to come."

_How can I ever become this man you look to see?_ Aragorn wondered, as he fiercely embraced his foster father and fought back the tears that would come despite his best efforts. He could not speak.

"Ah, Estel," Elrond said, and a sudden smile warmed his face. "Do not forget that I must still complete your lessons in healing. Let your steps bring you back to the Valley as you feel the power grow."

"I will, father," he said, and turned to go.

Heading for his own quarters, he paced slowly through the airy hallways, which seemed to echo with the memories of his boyhood, before his heritage had been revealed to him _._ The power of Elven healing that is given to the line of kings—that had been yet another of those wonders. _The power of my brother's line has waned much in these late days,_ Elrond had said. _But already I see that when you come to your full stature, yours will be at least as great as your father's and your grandfather's. It takes time to grow, my son, and you must learn to use the skill as it comes to you. An untrained Elven healer can become lost in the pathways and never find his way back._

He entered his room to find his foster brothers stretched out on the two chairs before the cold fireplace. Elrohir held a quiver of arrows across his lap. Elladan appeared to be dozing.

"We've come to help you pack," Elrohir said. Elladan opened one eye and grunted.

Aragorn cast a look of mock scorn at the long figure slumped in the chair. "I'm almost done, and just as well, since you look hardly able to lift a belt knife."

"I'm saving my strength for the map," Elladan said, pointing with his chin at the table covered with a soft skin inked with rivers, fords and pathways.

"Ah." Casting himself into the wooden chair where he had passed many hours studying his lessons, Aragorn leaned eagerly over the map. Fluid lines in blue showed the course of the Loudwater and Hoarwell rivers, with the Misty Moutains looming in black to the right. The green emblem of Elrond's house marked the location of Rivendell.

Joining him at the table, Elladan laid his finger on the cross marking the ford over the river. "Keep on the Great Road past the Ford for five days at a normal pace. To the north you will see a hilltop crowned with the ruined walls of an old fortress of Rhudaur from the days of the sorcerer. When the sun passes behind the tower, the entrance to the secret path lies to the south in the shadow. It is marked with a bit of tumbledown guard post, and if you look behind it, you will see an old rune etched on the cornerstone—'A' for Arnor. The trail will look like no more than a deer track, but after a couple of miles it will widen. Look for the marks on a black boulder. A three days' journey from there will take you to the Meeting Stone."

Elladan moved his finger to the fork between the two rivers. "Thurnost is here, and the way is carefully guarded. Do you remember your history lessons, Estel? It dates from the days of Elendil, a fortress built with the arts of Númenor itself. But it was abandoned when the kingdom broke into three, and Rhudaur fell to Angmar. At the fall of Arthedain we went with Aranarth that day he searched for the way, to reclaim it as a hidden fortress for his people.

"Here's what I would advise: make the signal—thrust your naked blade into the ground before the Stone—and wait. They will probably already be aware of you, but they will be slow to make a challenge, is my guess. There are few travelers, and most venture on the trails only by chance and never realize there are men living nearby. They soon pass on. The Rangers may expect you to do the same. I don't know if any traveler has been to the Meeting Stone since last we went all those years ago. And that was not a friendly time."

Elrohir snorted. "No, indeed. Never have I seen Hallor so angry, and Beleg was something like Mount Doom in eruption. But it was a difficult errand our father sent us on, to forbid them to come to the Valley and to refuse answers to all questions about you and Gilraen."

"Surely they know we are here, all the same," Aragorn said.

Elladan shrugged. "We don't know what they know, or guess. Beleg was muttering about Noldor gone as wild as Avari, who hate Men. I do believe he forgot that our father is Tuor's grandson."

"And all the years we rode together, we two and Arathorn and Beleg, hunting Orcs," said Elrohir in an injured tone. 

"Then surely you see the sense in my going there alone, and not in company with the two of you?"

"Oh, we know better than to argue with you when you have that look on your face. But you must be sharp," Elrohir said. 

"And when am I not? Have I not had the best teachers?"

"The Rangers may prove to be better teachers than we, for your needs," Elladan said. "And you face other, graver dangers, as you know. Sauron moves in Mordor. He has not forgotten Isildur and the sword of Elendil. Keep your identity close. Do not use your real name."

"Elrond has already warned me about that, more than once," Aragorn said, turning to his bed, where his pack and bits of clothing and gear lay scattered. 

"And there are wild men and thieves," Elrohir said. "Our father did not guard you here in secret for all these years to have you spitted by a bandit."

"I don't think, somehow, that will be my fate." 

Pulling the arrows from his quiver, Elrohir moved to his side. "I've brought you my special arrows as a goodbye gift. Use them well, brother."

"Thank you, I will." Greatly pleased—Elrohir's arrows were justly famous—Aragorn added them to his own quiver. 

Both of his foster brothers were standing close behind him. Out of the corner of his eye he could see them exchanging a furtive glance. He knew what was coming.

"Have you said farewell to Arwen yet?" asked Elladan.

Aragorn clenched his jaw and tried for a light tone. "This morning." Even to his own ear, his voice sounded sharp.

_When she had approached him, his heart leaped suddenly in his chest. But she only bade him a chilly farewell, and met his eyes with a haughty glance. "May you have a safe journey, Lord Aragorn," she had said, in the dignified voice of the lady of Rivendell. Then with a brief bow of her head she was gone._

"And?" said Elladan. 

Elrohir kicked him in the foot, so obviously that Aragorn knew he was meant to see it. In stubborn silence, Aragorn maintained a studied indifference.

"We'll be going to Thranduil's kingdom for the winter," Elrohir said finally. "But then we expect to see you. We must go Orc hunting together soon."

"I will be back to the Valley," Aragorn said. "Not often, but when I can." The three of them embraced warmly. "Goodbye, my brothers. You will see me again."

~oOo~

The next day, in the dark silence dark of the early morning, he rose from his childhood bed for the last time. He had chosen to leave almost everything behind. His things would be kept waiting for his return, whenever that would be, and he had no need for the silk shirts and embroidered tunics that he wore on feast days in Rivendell. He had packed warm and sturdy clothes, including a fur-lined cloak made from the skin of a bear he had killed that spring; a spare pair of well-oiled boots; a few choice books; and, most precious of all, his healer's kit. 

He dressed in the green and brown of the wilderness, adding a long-sleeved shirt of light mail, topped with vambraces and a vest of thick, toughened leather, and tall, rugged boots. He concealed the Ring of Barahir and Elrond's purse of gold in a soft leather pouch against his skin, along with his mother's letter for her kin. With Morchamion and Narsil in their sheathes thrust in his belt, he slung his pack on his back and loaded his arms with his helm, shield and all his other weapons. After the swords, his prize was the rugged hunting bow with its carved leather quiver that his foster brothers had given him for his eighteenth birthday. Elrohir's arrows now joined the dozen he had made himself.

River mists drifted in the Valley as he crossed to the stable. Flicking his black mane, Brelach nickered with joy to see him, his golden eyes soft and warm. _We go now, brother_ , he whispered in the horse's ears. _You alone accompany me._

He let Brelach have his head, and the horse chose a soft canter up the pathway to the world above. It was a beautiful early autumn, and Aragorn welcomed the time alone as a chance to disentangle the threads of his life that had seemingly knotted into an impossible snarl. Within a few short weeks, Estel and his golden childhood had vanished into the past.

He thought of his mother's words. _You will learn what it means to be a king._ Elrond had raised him to have a keen sense of duty and responsibility to combat the Shadow, so, in that sense, the purpose of his life had not changed. Even when his foster father had spoken of Aragorn son of Arathorn reclaiming the kingship of the Dúnedain and carrying Narsil reforged, he had reacted at first with pride and confidence. Why should he not fulfill Elrond's dream of seeing his brother's line restored? The deep love and reverence he bore for his foster father seemed motivation enough. The prospect of a life full of hardship and peril had seemed only a wonderful challenge to be met and conquered.

But the glamour soon ebbed in the tide of questions and doubts. Looking back on the history of his people did not encourage much optimism. Númenor had sunk below the waves when the arrogance of its last king had led him to challenge the might of the Elder King in Valinor. For the Númenoreans in exile, the power of Angmar had long ago shattered the northern kingdom, of which his name proclaimed him lord. And the royal house in Gondor had died out at the same time, while the Stewards had denied the claim of the Heirs of Isildur to the crown.

Somehow he was supposed to do better than all those generations of Men before him.

If only the terrible ache in his heart would leave him in peace, he could face his future with some confidence of at least doing his best to meet Elrond's expectations. _That's why you left_ , he chided himself. _Isn't it so? Not to do your duty as Chieftain of the Dúnedain, but to get away from her_. _You're just running away._ Or was he letting bitterness cloud even his own judgment of himself? _Face it, neither-Estel-nor-Aragorn_ , he mocked. _You don't know._

It was hardly much of a recommendation for a lord returning to his people. 

He tried to sort out the tangled emotions in his heart. Leaving aside the question of Arwen's love—which, truth be told, he could not do for a minute—he was faced with a daunting task, to somehow right the wrong of his people's history. And on this, Elrond said, depended the future of the new Age of Men. Could the burden get any more immense?

_I must take it one step at a time,_ he told himself. _First I must return to my birthplace. "Here I am, my people. The Hope of the new Age of Men, so named by Lord Elrond of Rivendell."_ _May it be that none of them have ever heard the name of Estel, the false Hope. Perhaps that is the only good thing about the whole mess._

He was not even sure, any more, of how much he wished to succeed, beyond the desire to please his foster father. The only desire he knew was for Arwen's love. And that was the one thing he could not have. 

The day they met in the woods above Elrond's House, she was as fresh as a spring wildflower, singing and dangling her slender feet in the gurgling stream. He did not know she was Elrond's daughter until the next day, and by then it was too late. He gave his heart away with those first kisses. 

Two weeks they had had together, but neither of them had spoken of it to any others. It was their own secret. For the first time in his life, the loneliness that dogged him went away. He told her things he had never said to anyone. Now he despised his own weakness. How could he trust so easily? She was as false as any woman who ever lived. She had rejected him heartlessly, and all because he insisted that she must be his.

But then his anger scattered like withered leaves before a wind of shame, as he remembered his jealous words. "You have trapped me with your Elvish enchantments," he had said. And he could hardly bear the blaze in her eyes as she answered, "Perhaps some day you will learn to untangle love from its enchantments, but it will not be with me."

He thought he would rather endure the yellow glare of an Orc behind an axe than see again the angry dislike in that lovely face. And still, every night, desire, longing, and heartache haunted his dreams.

He chanted softly some verses from a legendary poet of Númenor who had sought to capture the perilous beauty of the Elves:

_O what can ail thee, Knight at arms,_  
Alone and palely loitering?  
The sedge has withered from the lake  
And no birds sing. 

_I met a maiden in the woods_  
Full beautiful, an Elven child  
Her hair was long, her foot was light  
And her eyes were wild. 

He straightened up and looked forward proudly. _I will put this behind me. It will pass. If it is a battle, it is with myself._ And he sank his thoughts down into his being, seeking the balance and composure that he had been taught to summon courage and fortitude in battle, to conquer his emotions and put resolve in command of fear and doubt. 

Whatever happened, it was his duty to be with his people, and to strive to do his best, however inadequate that might be. He put the heartbroken poet from his mind and took up the lays in the High Elven Quenya that he had been taught to speak as well as his own native Sindarin. He sang the battle songs of Númenor that he had been taught in Rivendell. At least he now understood why he had been so carefully instructed in the history of the Dúnedain. Those kings whose names he had memorized were his own forefathers.

As he sang, Brelach splashed across the waters of the ford into the wild of Eriador.

~oOo~ 

_** Notes ** _

Thurnost is Sindarin, "hidden fortress." It is my invention.

The poem is shamelessly adapted from Keats, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."

For a photo of Brelach, see Naharion at <http://www.theoriginalseries.com/mearas.htm>


	3. Author's Notes

_"Purists might wish for a corpus with fewer contradictions, a canon less amorphous—one that allows them to declare, without equivocation, 'Thus saith Tolkien.' Yet, perhaps the good professor did not intend it to be so....the mythologies of our ancestors are not received in tidy, set form. They are based on oral traditions that took on new flavor as they passed from bard to bard, hamlet to hamlet. Over time, stories changed to reflect the needs and challenges of their tellers. Tolkien knew this; perhaps his greatest gift to us lies in all those unfinished manuscripts, for what we have is a fictional legendry that truly resembles the myths of the real world. And perhaps the greatest tribute to his work is the humble fan's attempt to add her vision to that legendry, for by her efforts, Tolkien's dream of an enduring mythology proves not so fanciful after all."  
—erunyauve (erunyauve at lycos.com) 2004_

"The Sword of Elendil" is written in the spirit of the above quotation as the story of the young Aragorn finding his way in the world of the Dúnedain after his childhood in Rivendell. The story is for the most part book canon, with some specific exceptions. Generally the exceptions have to do with the relationship between Aragorn and Arwen, which is different enough to qualify as Alternate Universe. My apologies to those who might find this jarring. My intention in "Sword" is to tell the story of Aragorn's coming of age—how he learns to deal with various conflicts and problems facing him as a young man of twenty who has just discovered his true destiny. The matter of Arwen is central to his emotional life, and I have significantly increased the angst level of his feelings toward her as reflective of the kinds of problems a young man might have in this situation.

Certain events are interpreted differently from the standard canon view. I have done this in the spirit of looking for the emotional truth of the story, rather than a rigid reading of the text. For example, "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen" was written after the death of both. Who is to say that the story as recorded was not adapted to the purpose of the historian?

Most of the poems quoted in this story are the work of the great English poets. Please see the chapter notes for specific information.

My heartfelt thanks to Dwimordene for inspiring me; to Oshun, Pandemonium, and DrummerWench for their friendship and sound advice; and to the folks at the Lizard Council for enduring, and answering, my endless requests for assistance, and to all my readers who have waited for five years for the completion of this tale.

_Chapter 1: Prologue_

How Narsil, a sword forged by Telchar in the First Age, came into Elendil's hands is never specified by Tolkien, but that it came from Thingol through Beren to Elros does not contradict what is known.

_Chapter 2: Arathorn's Son_

Tolkien says in _The Fellowship of the Ring_ ("Strider") that Narsil was broken a foot below the hilt. For the purposes of this story it is broken two feet below the hilt.

Tolkien does not say that Elrond took Gilraen and Aragorn to Rivendell against the will of the Dúnedain. But for any fanfic writer dealing with this part of Aragorn's life, there is an immediate problem of explaining how such a secret could be kept. This is my take on the matter.

_Chapter 3: Taking Leave_

The poem is shamelessly adapted from John Keats' splendid "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."

_Chapter 4: At the Meeting Stone_

The description of the Angle and the Keep and how the Dúnedain organize their affairs, as well as all the characters beyond the few named in the canon, are entirely my invention, but do not contradict anything that Tolkien wrote, to my knowledge.

_Chapter 5: Shadow of Angmar_

Ivorwen is of course a canon character and appears in "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen." There is a fragment in "Peoples of Middle-earth" crediting her with "seeing" a green stone when Aragorn was born. I have made this into a dream.

_Chapter 8: Wise Heart_

Saelind, Argonui's wife, and the story of the falcons are my invention.

_Chapter 9: Harvest Festival_

That there was trouble over Arathorn's marriage to Gilraen is told in "The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen." I have recast the story in a more dramatic version.

_Chapter 13: The Dagger_

To learn more about the terrible incident at Strathen Brethil, see the wonderful tales of Adaneth. The sonnet is shamelessly adapted from the great John Milton.

_Chapter 15: The Evenstar_

In my Alternate Universe, Arwen has not been in Rivendell since her mother's kidnapping and torture by the Orcs some five hundred years earlier. Because of fear for her safety, Elrond has kept her very existence a secret. Thus Gilraen as well as Aragorn did not know of her until she arrived.

My description of Elven sexual mores violates "The Laws and Customs of the Eldar," according to the views of most canon purists. I find that strict interpretation very cold-blooded, and prefer to see the Elves as much warmer creatures, free of the strictures and rules that bind human society. Aragorn himself shares Elven views, since he was raised in Rivendell.

_Chapter 23: The Servant of Mordor_

Ahando is entirely my invention, but Tolkien describes in _The History of Middle-Earth_  

the heinous activities of some disembodied Elves.

_Chapter 26: Shadow of the Elder Days_

In _The Sword of Elendil_ , Maedhros and Maglor are co-foster fathers to Elrond and Elros. See Oshun's inspired work for the source.


	4. List of Characters

List of characters (age at time of opening of story, September 30, 2951)

_Dúnedain of the North_

Aragorn (20), Heir of Isildur, son of Arathorn (d. 2933) and Gilraen

Beleg (78), Ranger captain, Aragorn's uncle by marriage to Ariel, Arathorn's sister (d. 2940 in childbed w. infant son)

Daeron (49), Ranger captain, master-at-arms

Damrod (22), Ranger

Dírhael (89), Aragorn's grandfather, Ranger captain

Fíriel (14), a servant girl

Gilraen (43), daughter of Dírhael and Ivorwen, Aragorn's mother

Goenor (148), Ranger

Halbarad (23), Hallor's son, Aragorn's second cousin

Hallor (102), acting chieftain, grandson of Argonui by Nimlach (Arador's older sister), Arathorn's first cousin.

Hawk, aka Herion (81), Ranger captain

Ingold (126), Ranger captain

Iorlas (35), Aragorn's uncle, Gilraen's brother, Ranger

Ivorwen (72), daughter of Gilbarad, Aragorn's grandmother, midwife, warden of the Commons

Lalaith (5), daughter of Iorlas and Ríannon, Aragorn's cousin

Malbeth (24), Hawk's grandson, Ranger and minstrel

Ríannon (31), Iorlas's wife, Aragorn's aunt by marriage

Rodnor and Rodnion (14), Hawk's twin grandsons, Rangers in training

Saelind (176), Aragorn's great-grandmother, wife of Argonui, mother of Arador, grandmother of Arathorn, Ariel and Hallor

_Elves of Rivendell_

Arwen, Elrond's daughter

Elladan, elder twin son of Elrond

Elrohir, younger twin son of Elrond

Elrond Halfelven

Erestor, Elrond's counselor

_Others_

The Sorcerer of Rhudaur

Various Men, Elves, Orcs, Trolls and Wolves


	5. Chronology

_Much of the following chronology is taken from Tolkien's "Tale of Years." Birth and death dates of the chieftains are from "Peoples of Middle-Earth." I repeat that material here to help orient the reader regarding the characters, their ages, and their experience of the past. Ages for most of the characters, including of course all "original" characters, are my own invention, but are compatible with canon. Please note there are no plot spoilers in this chronology._

_The events described in_ The Sword of Elendil _begin in late September 2951 and end three years later in early August 2954.  
_

2740\. Orcs renew their invasions of Eriador. Arassuil is chieftain of the Dúnedain at this time.

2747\. An Orc-band invades the Northfarthing.

2757\. Birth of Argonui son of Arathorn I.

2758\. Rohan attacked from west and east and overrun. Gondor attacked by fleets of the Corsairs.

2758-9. The Long Winter follows. Great suffering and loss of life in Eriador and Rohan. Gandalf comes to the aid of the Shire-folk.

2759\. Saruman takes up his abode in Isengard.

2770\. Smaug the Dragon descends on Erebor. Dale destroyed. Thror escapes with Thrain II and Thorin II.

2775\. Birth of Saelind, wife of Argonui.

2784\. Death of Arassuil son of Arahad II. Arathorn I becomes chieftain.

2790\. Thror slain by an Orc in Moria. The Dwarves gather for a war of vengeance.

2793\. The War of the Dwarves and Orcs begins.

2799\. Battle of Nanduhirion before the East-gate of Moria. Dain Ironfoot returns to the Iron Hills. Thrain II and his son Thorin wander westwards. They settle in the South of Ered Luin beyond the Shire (2802).

2800-64. Orcs from the North trouble Rohan.

2803\. Birth of Goenor.

2820\. Birth of Arador son of Argonui.

2825\. Birth of Ingold.

2841\. Thrain II sets out to revisit Erebor, but is pursued by the servants of Sauron.

2845\. Thrain the Dwarf is imprisoned in Dol Guldur; the last of the Seven Rings is taken from him.

2848\. Death of Arathorn I son of Arassuil. Argonui becomes chieftain.

2849\. Birth of Hallor.

2850\. Gandalf again enters Dol Guldur, and discovers that its master is indeed Sauron, who is gathering all the Rings and seeking for news of the One, and of Isildur's Heir. He finds Thrain and receives the key of Erebor. Thrain dies in Dol Guldur.

2851\. The White Council meets. Gandalf urges an attack on Dol Guldur. Saruman overrules him. Saruman begins to search near the Gladden Fields.

2862\. Birth of Dírhael.

2870\. Birth of Hawk (Herion).

2872\. The White Tree of Gondor dies, and no seedling can be found. The Dead Tree is left standing.

2873\. Birth of Arathorn II son of Arador. Birth of Beleg husband of Ariel.

2879\. Birth of Ivorwen daughter of Gilbarad.

2885\. Stirred up by emissaries of Sauron the Haradrim cross the Poros and attack Gondor.

2887-2895. Arathorn and Beleg are fostered in Rivendell.

2901\. Most of the remaining inhabitants of Ithilien desert it owing to the attacks of Uruks of Mordor.

2902\. Birth of Daeron.

2907\. Birth of Gilraen mother of Aragorn II.

2911\. The Fell Winter. The Baranduin and other rivers are frozen. White Wolves invade Eriador from the North.

2912\. Great floods devastate Enedwaith and Minhiriath. Tharbad is ruined and deserted. Death of Argonui. Arador becomes chieftain.

2916\. Birth of Iorlas son of Dírhael.

2920\. Birth of Ríannon, Iorlas's wife.

2921-2927. Arathorn and Beleg hunt Orcs with Thranduil's Elves in Mirkwood.

2928\. Birth of Halbarad.

2929\. Arathorn son of Arador of the Dunedain weds Gilraen. Birth of Damrod.

2930\. Arador slain by Trolls. Arathorn II becomes chieftain. Malbeth, Hawk's grandson, born.

2931\. Aragorn son of Arathorn II born on March 1.

2933\. Arathorn II slain. Aragorn becomes chieftain. Gilraen takes Aragorn to Imladris. Elrond receives him as foster-son and gives him the name Estel (Hope); his ancestry is concealed.

2936\. Birth of Fíriel.

2937\. Birth of Rodnion and Rodnor, Hawk's grandsons.

2939\. Saruman discovers that Sauron's servants are searching the Anduin near Gladden Fields, and that Sauron therefore has learned of Isildur's end. He is alarmed, but says nothing to the Council.

2940\. Ariel daughter of Arador dies in childbed.

2941\. Thorin Oakenshield and Gandalf visit Bilbo in the Shire. Bilbo finds the Ring. The White Council meets; Saruman agrees to an attack on Dol Guldur, since he now wishes to prevent Sauron from searching the River. Sauron having made his plans abandons Dol Guldur. The Battle of the Five Armies in Dale. Death of Thorin II. Bard of Esgaroth slays Smaug. Dain of the Iron Hills becomes King under the Mountain (Dain II).

2942\. Bilbo returns to the Shire with the Ring. Sauron returns in secret to Mordor.

2943\. Marriage of Iorlas and Ríannon.

2944\. Bard rebuilds Dale and becomes King. Gollum leaves the Mountains and begins his search for the "thief" of the Ring.

2946\. Birth of Lalaith daughter of Iorlas.

2949\. Gandalf and Balin visit Bilbo in the Shire.

2951\. Sauron declares himself openly and gathers power in Mordor. He begins the rebuilding of Barad-dur. Sauron sends three of the Nazgûl to reoccupy Dol Guldur.

            Elrond reveals to Estel his true name and ancestry, and delivers to him the shards of Narsil. Arwen, newly returned from Lorien, meets Aragorn in the woods of Imladris. October 1. Aragorn leaves Rivendell for the Angle.

2953\. Last meeting of the White Council in the Grey Havens.


	6. At the Meeting Stone

  


Growling with frustration, Halbarad tossed the broken stick over his shoulder: yet another ruin instead of an arrow. His fingers were clumsy today. He cast his eye across the small clearing to the auburn-haired boy crouched over a fire of smokeless hot embers, watching a lean venison haunch as it cooked. The boy took a deep breath and leaned his nose over the rich smell. His twin brother sat nearby, picking burrs out of the coat of a large, thick-furred dog.  
  
"That may well be our last meal until I can make more arrows," Halbarad grumbled.  
  
Rodnor shrugged. "We can trap rabbits."  
  
Rodnion said, "Huan will catch deer for us." He rumpled the dog's pointed ears. "Won't you, Huan?"  
  
Halbarad sympathized with the quizzical look in Huan's brown eyes. Grunting, he turned his attention to the next smooth stick. But a loud shout and the sound of a swift, firm stride brought him to his feet as Malbeth burst through the trees, panting, and called, "A man—an Elf—at the Meeting Stone."  
  
Halbarad frowned. "Slow down. You make no sense."  
  
Malbeth took several deep breaths before he continued. "Damrod and I saw him—an armed man at the Meeting Stone. At first we thought it must be an odd chance. No one has ever come in all the days I have patrolled here. He dismounted and made camp. We thought, it's nothing—a traveler—he will soon return to the Road. But then he thrust his naked blade in the ground before the Stone, making the signal, if I do not mistake it. Still we watched, and he stayed. It is no chance—he makes the signal."  
  
Halbarad let out a short huff of surprise. In the past Elves from Rivendell had come to the Meeting Stone, seeking the Rangers. But never in his ten years of patrols—ten years since the age of thirteen, the age the twins were now—had anyone made the signal at the Stone. As far as he knew, in fact, it had happened only once since the sudden and tragic disappearance of the boy Heir of Isildur and his mother eighteen years ago—when Gandalf the Grey had come to tell the Dúnedain about the fall of the great dragon Smaug. They had not seen him since.

Halbarad pulled at his beard. "What kind of man is he?"  
  
"Well-armed—a splendid warhorse—dressed in woodland colors but richly adorned. I thought perhaps he is an Elf, but we have seen very few, and never here. The sword is Elven, no mistake. A fine and beautiful blade, one that I would never wish to see in the hands of my enemy. He has a noble bearing, as if he is used to a lord's hall. A fugitive from Gondor's justice, perhaps? But why would such a one make the signal?"  
  
"Why, indeed?" Halbarad asked. He frowned in thought. "Well, we must go see. Rodnor, go at once to Captain Hawk and tell him of this. We will observe this man and see what he is made of. We'll take Huan, but Rodnion—you must stay here and guard the camp. Don't let the foxes near the meat!"  
  
"Yes, Halbarad," chimed their twin voices. Rodnor jumped up, brushed off his hands and, thrusting his knife into its sheath, dashed away.  
  
Halbarad girded on his sword belt. "How many arrows do you have, Malbeth?"  
  
"Half a quiver, as you bade me put aside. Damrod has more—he fletched some as we waited. Fear made his fingers nimble."  
  
"Is this man so threatening? Didn't you say he waits?"  
  
"Waits, and makes a soup. When I left he was reading a book."  
  
"Truly, a dangerous enemy," Halbarad said with a quirk of his mouth.  
  
"How can we know, Halbarad? These rumors of Mordor…I can't put them aside, remembering the tales the Dwarves told us at the Ford, that Sauron may be returned. Surely he would not send an Orc to trap us."  
  
"You have a point." Halbarad whistled for the dog, and they set off down the trail. "Tell me more of this man. What does he look like?"  
  
"Tall, dark-haired—indeed, he looks like one of Dúnedain blood. That's why we thought of Gondor. He is not one of ours."  
  
"Does he carry a shield?"  
  
"Yes, but there is no device."  
  
"Well, I will see for myself."  
  
They moved briskly through the wood. The Meeting Stone stood in a dell among the trees a good half day's walk away. A looming slab of squared rock, it towered twice the height of a man and bore markings so worn with age that no one knew what language they were. The elders among the Dúnedain said the Men living in these lands before the coming of the kings had built it, and that its mates, now fallen and half buried in the earth and grass, had once formed a circle around it. Halbarad did not know if that was true, but he thought by far the greater marvel was the overlook in the sharp cliff of rock curling around the edge of the dell. Climbing to the height through winding tunnels and stairs, a man could look down on the Stone and the path beyond. Dwarves had built the passages, his father had told him, before the days of Moria, and the Númenoreans had widened the way so that their soldiers could use them.   
  
Thrusting east as a spur from the long ridge of hills forming the right bank of the river, the rocky cliff rose from a gentle hollow in the land. An overhang hid the entrance to a cave. Stooping low, Halbarad crawled through the short passage into the wider cavern, big enough to hold a defense guard of twenty men. Slits carved in the rock high above cast a dim light. He strode through the wide space to the stairs beyond and followed the winding, climbing way to the watch post above.  
  
When he and Malbeth emerged from the stairway, Damrod stood in the round tower, a nocked arrow in his longbow, pointing down to the Stone in the grassy dell below.  
  
"What are you doing?" Halbarad said sharply.  
  
"Getting the measure of my aim, of course," Damrod said.  
  
"Stop, now! We will not harm this man."  
  
"Halbarad, how can we trust this one? How many years since any man has come here? Only Rivendell is to know about this Stone, and he is no Elf." But he lowered his bow.  
  
"Perhaps he is," Malbeth said. "He looks fine enough."  
  
Damrod threw him a scathing look. "An Elf with a beard? He is as mortal as you are."  
  
Malbeth exclaimed, "Ah, I am a fool."  
  
Halbarad stepped to the watching post and looked down. The man sat against one of the fallen stones, his long legs stretched out in the grass. He was bareheaded, and his rough dark hair fell around his face, partly hiding it. In his lap he held a flint and a sharpening stone.   
  
Even from this distance Halbarad could see the fineness of his cloak, folded beside him on the grass. A plain, burnished war helm and a small black shield lay on top. As Malbeth had said, it bore no device to tell who the man might be. His rich leather pack had silver fastenings, and was as elegantly formed as the saddle beside it. A powerful black stallion grazed around one of the fallen stones, its dark coat glowing bronze in the sunlight. A small pot steamed on a modest cook fire beyond the man's booted feet.  
  
A two-handed greatsword with a black pommel stood in the ground before the Meeting Stone, its broad blade glistening. Leaning against the Stone itself was a highly burnished leather scabbard, girt with silver like the pack and saddle.  
  
And the man had a second sword, propped at his side against the stone serving as his back rest. The scabbard was much less fine, to be sure—rather battered even from this distance—but Halbarad could see a good-sized red gem at the pommel's end.  
  
Clearly this was a man of some consequence.  
  
As he watched, the man rose smoothly from the ground and walked over to the horse, stroking its nose and, evidently, speaking to it. Then he turned and directed a prolonged stare up at the tower where the guard post lay hidden. Startled, Halbarad felt as if the man looked straight into his eyes.  
  
"That's the second time he has done that," Damrod said. "It's as if he looks for us. How can that be?"

  
"My father always says that the simplest explanation is usually the right one," Halbarad answered. "He's here to meet the Rangers, and he knows at least this much of our defense. Likely he is a friend of the Elves or of Gandalf. Tell me, Damrod, was he already at the Stone when you first saw him, or did you track him?"  
  
"He was here," Damrod said. "There's no way to know how long he has been there, beyond that two days ago, when last we passed, he was not."  
  
"Only our own people, Gandalf and Rivendell know of this Stone," Halbarad said, "unless there has been treachery. He is not one of ours, that we know. I have never heard of Gandalf sending a Man with a message, but that may be, I suppose. I guess that he's from Rivendell—and if that's so, I wager there is a good possibility that"—Halbarad took a deep breath—"he is Aragorn."  
  
"Aragorn! You are dreaming. Aragorn is dead, or taken. Besides, he is a child."  
  
"Do you know how to count, Damrod?" asked Halbarad impatiently. "Aragorn is twenty this year. I would not be likely to forget, given that my father announces each March first how old the Heir of Isildur, if he lives, would be, and insists that we do not give up hope that he will return. Granted, this man looks older than twenty, but perhaps, at a closer look..."  
  
"A closer look, yes," Damrod said. "But even if he is Aragorn, is that a good thing? Who knows who sent him, where he has been, or why he is here?"  
  
"There's no point arguing about it now," Halbarad said. "Let's go get a closer look. Rodnor is on the way to give the news to Hawk, and he will be here soon enough, himself. Let's go."  
  
"And do what? Do you mean to watch, or speak to him?"  
  
"I don't know yet," Halbarad said. "But do not draw weapons until I command it. And that includes your bow."  
  
"I will leave it strung, anyway," Damrod insisted. "Truly, Halbarad, I well understand your point. Yes, we must show courtesy to strangers at the Stone. But we must also defend the Angle, and now the danger of Mordor is increased. I do not forget the tales of old, of the spies Angmar sent among the Dúnedain. Treachery, or force to make a man speak, is to be feared."  
  
"Nor do I forget," Halbarad said grimly. "Trust, mistrust—both have their dangers."  
  
They returned quickly to the cave entrance. Emerging into the light, they crept through the woods to the north side of the dell. Crouched at his small cookfire, the man was tending his soup. He took a pinch of salt from a small box and cast it in the pot.  
  
Halbarad could see his face now: pale, strong-boned, with an intensity and nobility about his keen eyes and mouth. _Definitely a man of Dúnedain blood,_ Halbarad thought, _whatever else he may be.  
_  
The man looked up, straight at the bank of trees hiding them—or so they thought—from his view. He rose to his feet. "Please join me," he said in the Common Tongue, with a gesture of welcome. "There's enough to share." His voice was deep and striking, with a fluid tone.  
  
_He knows his woodcraft, anyway,_ Halbarad thought with admiring surprise. _I thought myself a better scout than to be seen so quickly._ He stepped forward into the clearing, Malbeth and Damrod just behind. Huan crouched and growled until Malbeth silenced him with a curt command.  
  
Halbarad halted some distance from the man, aware that while the stranger's swords were out of his reach, he wore a long knife in his belt. "We bid you welcome to our lands, traveler. Who are you, and why have you come?"  
  
"I seek my kin, and I have heard that they dwell in this land."

"Here at the Meeting Stone we greet all strangers with courtesy," Halbarad said, "yet I must again ask, Who are you, and whose son?"

The man hesitated before answering, and Damrod shifted restlessly, his hands twitching. Halbarad shot him a warning glance.

"First tell me," the man said finally, "are you Rangers? I guess that you are, and that I have found the kin I seek."

_If he is Aragorn,_ Halbarad thought, _he has reason to hold back his name. But that could as well be true of a spy, seeking a way to win us. Or would a spy simply claim the name, and expect to be welcomed? How do I read this riddle? Where is Hawk? Would that I had his wisdom!_

Halbarad looked searchingly into the stranger's face, and saw a straightforward questioning in those piercing eyes. "I am Halbarad Hallor's son, Ranger of Eriador," he said. 

The stranger's eyes lit, but he did not smile. He said slowly, switching from the Common Speech to the Elven Tongue, "Then we are kin. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and I seek to take my place among the Dúnedain."  
  
Halbarad approached him, and halted within arm's reach. To his surprise, he found himself looking up—he had never before met a man taller than himself. Holding out his hand for a warrior's greeting, he too spoke in the Elven Tongue: "You are most welcome. Yes, we are kin. My grandmother was Ninniach, the only daughter of Argonui son of Arathorn the First."

Aragorn clasped his hand firmly, and smiled for the first time—a transforming smile that suffused warmth across the stark planes of his face. "Halbarad, I am most pleased to meet you at last."  
  
Halbarad remembered a small boy dogging his steps with single-minded intensity—most annoying to a five-year-old with things to do—but decided against bringing it up. He turned to his companions. "This is Damrod Tirgon's son, and Malbeth son of Suinhir."  
  
Despite the cautious, closed set to his face, Damrod greeted Aragorn with polite words. "Welcome, Aragorn," he said, with a bow of his head.  
  
But Malbeth broke into a big grin. "Aragorn! Has good fortune returned to the Dúnedain at last?"   
  
Damrod stirred uneasily. Halbarad clenched his teeth. He believed that this man before them was indeed Aragorn, but he knew it was not his place to formally acknowledge him—no, that job belonged to his father, Hallor, the acting chieftain, and the captains' council. He said carefully, "The Heir of Isildur is our hope and our future, and for many years we thought he was lost."

Aragorn said, "Not lost. I have been in Rivendell under the care of Master Elrond."

"So many believed," Halbarad said, "but no one knew for sure."

Damrod said, "And why have you now returned?"

"I chose to leave," Aragorn said. "As a man grown I belong with my people. I have brought word from Master Elrond and from my mother, who remains in Rivendell."

"These matters are for the acting chieftain to decide," Halbarad said. "I mean no discourtesy, but I must be honest that I myself have no authority to rule in these matters."

Aragorn inclined his head. "I understand, and I know that in these dark days, I cannot take a welcome for granted. But I have proof that I am Aragorn."

Halbarad said firmly, "I would ask that you reserve these proofs for Captain Hawk, who should be here soon. He has been alerted to the presence of a stranger at the Stone, and is a member of the captains' council and my father's lieutenant."  
  
"Of course," said Aragorn. "Will you share my soup while we wait?"  
  
They passed around the one small wooden bowl, each taking one draft of the meaty, savory soup before relinquishing it to the next man. Malbeth exclaimed, "You are a fine cook, Aragorn. This is delicious."  
  
Aragorn's disarming smile again lit his face. "I deserve no credit. This is made with meat from the kitchens of Rivendell, and herbs picked from the gardens."  
  
"Elvish food," said Damrod slowly.

"Yes, but I fear, a very poor example of Master Elrond's table, and what was enough for one is only a taste for the four of us."  
  
As Aragorn refilled the small bowl, Halbarad puzzled over what action to take. _My father would have a hundred questions for him: Rivendell, you say? Have you always been there? Why do you return now? What did you think of Elrond's actions? Did he tell you what he had done? Why, once you became a man able to speak for himself, did you not protest the ban of the Dúnedain from the Valley?_  
  
Yes, the acting chieftain would ask these things of Aragorn, but he would not do it before all to hear. Therefore Halbarad, too, would keep his tongue still and not encourage Damrod's suspicions. And the best way to keep tongues still, Halbarad knew, was to get bodies moving.   
  
Therefore they would go to the campfire where Rodnion waited and enjoy the roasted venison. He hoped Hawk would come before the talking went too far.

"We have a haunch of venison roasting at our camp not far from here," Halbarad said. "I propose we go there—we may well meet Hawk on the way. We can get there by sundown if we move fast."  
  
"Is that wise?" Damrod asked. "Are we not ordered to wait here?"  
  
"I believe I may make a judgment in this matter," Halbarad said. He knew that Damrod thought he was extending too much trust too quickly to the man claiming to be Aragorn. But whatever the truth of the matter, nothing was going to be resolved at the Meeting Stone.  
  
Damrod doused the small fire and scattered the coals, while Aragorn saddled his horse, tying his pack, shield and helm to the tack. He slid his greatsword out of the ground before the Stone and carefully wiped it clean before thrusting it into its sheath, now at his sword belt.  
  
"It is a fine blade," Halbarad said. "Elven, isn't it?"  
  
"Yes," Aragorn answered. "I call it Morchamion, the Black Hand. It was a gift from my foster father upon my leaving, as is this fine horse, Brelach."  
  
"Your foster father?" Damrod asked, frowning.  
  
"Master Elrond," Aragorn said. "I call him father."  
  
A small silence took over the group, as Damrod again shifted uneasily.  
  
"And the second sword?" Halbarad said, as much to break the silence as to satisfy his curiosity.  
  
Aragorn bent to pick up the worn scabbard holding the sword with its incongruous red gem. He drew the blade, and to his surprise Halbarad saw that it was broken two feet from the pommel. But Aragorn held it almost reverently, lifting it into the light. "This is Narsil, the sword of Elendil."

The sun glinted on the keen edges of the sharp steel blade. Halbarad felt the absence of the sword point as almost painful--something amiss in the fabric of the world. But then, as Aragorn held it aloft, he saw Narsil whole--its deadly steel gleaming gold and silver with the light of the sun and the moon.  
  
In awe he stepped back. "It will be reforged," he said. "Some day, and you will carry it."  
  
Aragorn looked at him in surprise, and for a brief moment uncertainty darkened his eyes. But he said, "Elrond says Narsil will be reforged, yes. But the right time has never come."  
  
"Not yet," Halbarad said.  
  
Damrod exclaimed, "Narsil is not the province of Elrond, in any case. He has interfered too much in our affairs. This is a matter for the Dúnedain."  
  
In a look Halbarad would soon come to know well, Aragorn's eyes gleamed with challenge. "Yes, for the Dúnedain. But we would cease to be Dúnedain were we to turn against Elrond."  
  
Halbarad held up his hand. "These are weighty matters for a camp in the Wild. Let's move on."  
  
Damrod seemed inclined to continue the argument, but he relented at a stern look from Halbarad. Aragorn turned easily away and made his final preparations.  
  
As they set off on the trail back to the camp where Rodnion waited. Halbarad called out, "Malbeth and Damrod, take the dog and move ahead as fast as you can. I will stay with Aragorn." Then, as the others moved off, he turned to Aragorn with a smile. "The horse will slow us down--there is no good path here. Further on, near the Ridge, the pathways open up to a trail across the top. I hope to soon meet Captain Hawk, and get leave to go to the Keep. There will be a much better chance to talk. I know my father will have many questions."  
  
"As he should," Aragorn said. "And I am pleased to answer them, at the right time. I appreciate your judgment."  
  
"I know my father wouldn't have wished me to encourage Damrod's proddings. But now that we are alone, I can speak for myself. I guessed who you might be when first I saw you. Perhaps blood speaks to blood, I don't know. We are cousins, and I have grown up with your name in my ear. My father has always believed you would return some day. But now, let us move on."

They moved in silence through the woods, until, approaching the camp, Halbarad halted and whistled low and clear, repeated three times. Upon hearing the answering whistle, he turned to Aragorn and said, "Hawk is here."

As they strode into the camp, Damrod was speaking intently to Hawk, a deep frown on his face. Goenor, pulling at his enormous beard, frowned as he listened. Two sweating horses drank from the nearby stream.

Putting a hand on Damrod's arm, Hawk lifted his grizzled head; his eyes moved beyond Halbarad to the tall shape of Aragorn just behind him. Halbarad nodded in answer to the question and the flash of recognition in his captain's eyes. The two boys gawked at Aragorn like stunned chickens.

"Captain Hawk," Halbarad said in his most formal voice, "Aragorn son of Arathorn has come to us at last."

His keen eyes and hooked nose had given Hawk his name, and now, with his searching stare, he looked more than ever like a bird of prey. 

Aragorn bowed his head and said, "Captain, I am honored to meet you."

Hawk strode forward and, bowing his head, offered his hand. "You could be no other than your father's son. My name is Herion, but men call me Hawk."

Damrod said, "You know him, then, captain?"

Favoring his leg, lame from an old wound, Goenor stepped forward, a wide grin splitting his huge black and grey beard, and set his hands on his hips. "He's Arathorn's son, sure enough," he said. "And fresh from Rivendell, by the look of him." His keen eyes appraised Aragorn from the gilt clasp of his cloak to his dusty but well-fashioned boots.

"And no reason to forego your courtesy," Hawk said, turning up his lip. "Is it thus we greet the Heir of Isildur? Aragorn, let me introduce Goenor, whose advanced age must excuse his blunt tongue."

Aragorn offered his hand in greeting. "It is an honor to meet you," he said.

"Blunt tongue, Hawk? More tongues than mine will go wagging, as you well know!" He laughed, "And mine will wag with joy." He winked at Damrod. "Stop fretting, young one. He is Aragorn, or I am King of the Valar. And that is Narsil," he added, nodding at the second sword in Aragorn's belt. "I have seen it in the hands of four Heirs of Isildur before him."

Hawk held up both hands. "This is chieftain's business. Halbarad, as soon as the horses have rested and you have taken some food, you must go to Hallor at the Keep. We let fly a signal arrow from the Point, so he will know a stranger has come to the Meeting Stone. But no time should be wasted apprising him of this important matter."

He turned to Aragorn and again bowed his head. "Welcome home, my lord."

  



	7. Shadow of Angmar

Halbarad leaned low over the horse's grey neck, a wide grin on his face, and shouted, "Run, Vingilot, run! Quick as your namesake!" He whooped with triumph as the horse's gallop sent his hair and cloak flying in the wind like the sails of Eärendil's great vessel. No task had ever brought him such bliss: to fly at Vingilot's great speed down the Ranger's road to the Keep, to deliver to his father the news that the Heir of Isildur had returned. 

Through the golden afternoon he sped, into the shadowy evening and the deep night. He slowed only to pass farmers' wagons laden with harvest, and stopped only to rest the horse and to sleep for a few hours.  
  
The next day, as he approached Thurnost at the southern tip of the Angle, the land began to climb, slowing him down, and the rich earth give way to black rock. Ahead, he could see the stony crags that hid the Keep, marking the sharp point of the Angle where the two rivers joined to one great flow to the Sea, far in the south. Only a neck of rock joined the land of the Angle to the hidden fortress. To reach it men had to enter a tunnel that was its only entrance by land.   
  
Halbarad waved to the sentinels at the tunnel doors. "Chieftain's business!" he called out. Just as the huge wooden doors, barred with steel, swung open, he loosed the rains and let Vingilot fly. Down the stone tunnel the horse's hoofs clattered against the smooth floor, fashioned by the Men of Númenor even before the founding of the North Kingdom. Emerging into the light, he slowed Vingilot to a walk along the unpaved paths of the inner fortress.  
  
The bell tolled, calling all Thurnost for the evening meal in the Commons of the Great Hall, and Halbarad heard and saw the bustle of the workmen as they began to put away their tools. A blacksmith splashed his face in a bucket of water and scrubbed his hands clean. A mother—Urwen, Halbarad guessed, from the lilting rhythm of her voice—called her children in from play. His father, too, was likely headed for the Commons, if he were not there already. Halbarad dismounted, and leading Vingilot by the reins, headed for the stables, bidding a hurried good evening to those he passed as he went.  
  
"Feed him well, Amras, he has done good service these two days," he said to the stable boy. With quick strides he passed into the hall where women were passing out baskets of bread and pitchers of ale. "My father—where is my father?"  
  
"Yet in the map room, sir," answered young Fíriel as she swung a pot of soup onto a table.  
  
Without a word Halbarad strode through the Commons and took the stairs two at a time to the upper level. The sound of his own feet against the dark wooden floor did not mask the murmur of voices through the open doorway—his father was not alone. No surprise in that; it was his habit of the evening to consult with his captains.  
  
"Two more boys for training, I think." Ingold, Hallor's chief lieutenant, pounded one fist into his open palm as Halbarad burst into the room. Ingold's head swiveled sharply. "Halbarad! Are you supposed to be here?"  
  
Hallor, stretched out in his deep chair, a mug of beer held against the arm rest, removed his pipe from his mouth. His eyes belied his seeming calm. "What is it? What has happened?"  
  
"Aragorn," Halbarad panted. "He came to the Meeting Stone. Two days ago, we met him."  
  
Hallor stood up. Ingold's hands dropped to his side. Daeron, the master-at-arms, turned abruptly from the hearth. The room stilled to stunned silence. Hallor moved first: without a smile, but his eyes twinkling with curiosity, he said, "Close the door, Halbarad. And start at the beginning, and tell us all."  
  
With a quick pull at the handle, Halbarad drew the door shut. He kept his tale brief, and watched the men's reactions as he spoke. A smile deepened on Hallor's face, Daeron's silence grew more dour, and Ingold's shrewd eyes shone with a dubious glint.   
  
In the silence that followed, Halbarad allowed his eyes to wander the room. Afternoon light from the open window fell upon a large map stretched across the table's other end: small pebbles clustered at the markings for Sarn Ford, Bree, Fornost, the Northern Downs, the Tower Hills, and the Angle. A platter of meat pies and a bowl of pease sat untouched on the table, along with a breached keg of beer and several mugs. He sat down and served himself a plate of food and a full mug of beer.  
  
Restless, Ingold paced in the space between table and wall, his shadow moving across the racks of rolled maps and arms.   
  
The acting chieftain sank back into his chair. "Well, well, well! We must go at once to greet him."  
  
Ingold swiveled on his feet to face Hallor. "Greet him! You believe this tale?"

"My son says that Hawk and Goenor both believed the man to be Aragorn. I will reserve my final judgment until I see for myself, but I do believe you trust those two as much as I do."

"Perhaps he is Aragorn." Ingold pounded his fist yet again. "But where has he been these years, and for what purpose does he return now? Or, should I ask, for what purpose does Elrond send him back? You said he came from Rivendell, did you not, Halbarad?"

"Yes, from the Elves. He has messages and gifts from Elrond, he said."

"'He said'—the very point. We cannot take the word of a stranger on this matter."

  
"He is not a stranger." Hallor spoke around the stem of his pipe. "He was born here, as you well know, Ingold."  
  
Ingold huffed with irritation. "Don't play with words, old friend. How can we know this man is Aragorn? He comes to us just as Sauron is revealed in Mordor."  
  
"He is no spy," said Halbarad sharply.  
  
"You know this?" asked Ingold with a grimace.  
  
Halbarad opened his mouth to speak again, but stopped when his father put out his hand. "Whoever he is, he asked for our hospitality at the Meeting Stone, and he will get it." 

"You are a far more patient and trusting man than I," Ingold grumbled.  
  
"A good thing, too," murmured Hallor with a smile. He looked up at his son. "Sit down, Halbarad. Eat, drink. What else would you suggest, Ingold? We send him packing?"  
  
Halbarad sat at the other side of the table so that he could see Ingold's face. He knew his father wanted him to listen and observe. Seizing a meat pie—the rich smell had already set his stomach grumbling—he poured a mug of ale.  
  
"Someone must meet him, of course," Ingold said. "But we must have proofs of this man's claim." 

Stopping the mug just as it reached his lips, Halbarad looked up sharply. "He carries Narsil. Hawk and Goenor recognized it. Is that good enough?"

"The sword stolen along with the son and the mother," grumbled Ingold. "Too good, perhaps? What is Elrond's purpose, then? Since he keeps the scepter, he evidently thinks himself king of Arnor."

Removing his pipe from his mouth, Hallor cleared his throat and cast a sharp glance at Ingold and Daeron both. "You would do well not to confuse these matters. If Aragorn has indeed returned, that is all to the good. Do not place our quarrel with Elrond upon his shoulders. He was only a child at the time."  
  
"And barely more than one now, but twenty years old—Elrond's child, not ours. I have said these many years, even before Arathorn's death, we cannot depend upon Rivendell. The time of the Elves is over."  
  
"An old argument," Hallor said. "Our history tells us that nothing but good has come of our alliance with the Elves. It was not the power of Gondor and Arnor alone that drove the Witch King from Angmar."  
  
"And what fighting do they do now? Where are their warriors, their scouts? They stay in their valley, safe and living forever, while we die fighting. And against Angmar they had their own lands to defend. But I doubt they will throw anything to our defense now. It is for Men to fight Mordor, I believe. But if Aragorn has been trained in the ways of the Elves, perhaps he plays a harp better than he wields a sword."   


Halbarad opened his mouth for a sharp retort, but his father quelled him with a sharp glance before turning his shrewd eyes, glinting between half-closed lids, back to Ingold. "And were Angmar to rise again?" 

"That seems, indeed, quite likely," said Ingold as he paced. "Or something else as foul."

"Yes, and we know that Sauron continues to search for any remaining Heirs of Isildur. It is Aragorn himself who is most in danger, I would remind you. Remember, as well, that the sons of the Chieftains have always been fostered in Rivendell, if not from so young an age. And they have learned to wield a sword with the skill of the Elven warriors of old."  
  
"I do not forget," Ingold said harshly. "So we have one—one!—Elf, or Man-as-Elf, perhaps. It's the Dúnedain that lie first on Sauron's death list, all those of Dúnedain blood. We must tighten our defenses, not loosen them. We need more Rangers."  
  
Hallor grunted. "And we may have just gained one more. What's more, we may have regained the Heir of Isildur and our chieftain. I have tried to play Arathorn's part, but such a man cannot be replaced. If this man is his son, maybe he is a man of his father's stature."  
  
"That will be many years in the making, if it happens at all," said Ingold with a set jaw.  
  
Hallor raised his eyebrows. "Shall we leave off the argument for now? We must meet the man. As for the larger questions, the captains' council is the place for a debate. We can wait a few months. Meanwhile, I expect cool heads and calm tempers in the Keep." Hallor puffed on his pipe. Exhaling, he turned his eyes to the silent figure at the hearth. "Daeron, do you have anything to say in this matter?"  
  
Halbarad screwed his neck to have a look at the man where he stood in his forbidding silence. Daeron's face twitched around the blind scar where his right eye had once been. "I will form an opinion when I have met him."  
  
Not even Halbarad could read Hallor's expression. "We leave in the morning. One of you must stay here and take charge." 

"I will stay," said Daeron.

Hallor nodded his agreement. "That will do."

A sharp rap sounded at the door, and before Hallor answered, it swung open to reveal the soft, worn figure of Ivorwen daughter of Gilbarad. A slow smile spread over Hallor's face. "Good evening, Ivorwen."

Her hair bound up in a old cloth, she wore her apron, dusty with flour and the stains of what looked like fruit. "My grandson, my daughter—you have had news."

Halbarad had grown up with tales of Ivorwen's foresight, but this astonished him. "How did you know?'

Hallor chuckled. "I would ask rather, what took you so long? Has your Sight grown sluggish? Yes, Halbarad has seen Aragorn at the Meeting Stone."

Her face lit up like the sun. "I knew it! And my daughter?"

"She remains in Rivendell, we are told," Hallor said.

Ivorwen's face fell, but she said, "I will go with you to meet him." Her soft, warm glance fell on Halbarad's face. "Tell me everything."

Hallor said, "Sit down. The others were just leaving."

With a sharp nod, Daeron stalked from the room. Ingold said only, "Until tomorrow," as he closed the door behind him.  
  
And for the second time, Halbarad told the story of his first meeting with Aragorn. Ivorwen's shining eyes blurred with tears, until she openly wept. "At last, at last." 

"Ivorwen, tell me, what did you See?" asked Hallor.

"I have had the dream of the green stone seven nights running now. It has not happened that way since my grandson was born." She lifted her hands in a gesture of acceptance.

"You must come with us. Your recognition of this man as Aragorn will count more than any other's. Can you be ready to leave at first light?"

"Oh yes, I will begin preparations now. How many will go?"

"Four—Halbarad, Ingold, you and I."

"It will be done." As she turned away, she caught herself. "My pardon, Hallor. I did not realize I had appeared before you in my apron."

Hallor only chuckled in reply, and she left with a sweet smile. Silence descended on the room as Hallor puffed thoughtfully on his pipe and Halbarad waited for him to speak. Finally the acting chieftain sighed and turned his sharp eyes to his son. "Well?"  
  
"Aragorn will win them," Halbarad said firmly. "Father, I saw Narsil reforged in his hand."  
  
"Did you now," Hallor murmured.   
  
"Already I can tell he is a fine man. Skilled and courteous. Ingold cannot really believe he is a spy from Mordor."  
  
"His purpose is rather to remind me that we face greater dangers and must be wary, and he is right. How can anyone deny it? The Dwarves, too, spoke of Mordor last they came to the Ford. The news reached the Keep yesterday, along with reports of strangers in Bree."  
  
Halbarad huffed in dismay.  
  
"All the more reason not to have dissension in the Keep," Hallor said. "I worry also about Daeron."  
  
"Surely he will not dwell on his old quarrel with Arathorn?"  
  
"My son, you are young still, and have yet to learn how long those hurts will linger. But Daeron is man enough to master them, I hope."  
  
Halbarad did not miss the note of uncertainty in his father's voice.   
  
Hallor stretched out his legs and drew a thoughtful breath from his pipe before he spoke again. "I wish Beleg were here. Of all of us, he knows the Elves the best, and can press some sense into Ingold and the others. Well, he will be here for the winter council, if not sooner. That will have to suffice."  
  
"Perhaps you should then keep him here, and send Ingold to Sarn Ford."  
  
Hallor joined his arms to his stretch. "I expect instead that I will be going to Rivendell. I must myself go to see Elrond and set things straight. I want to put all of this ill will into the past, where it belongs. It's the future we must attend to. The line of Isildur is our hope and our purpose, and now it is restored, if you are right. I think an early marriage is in Aragorn's future. Unless," and his eyes twinkled at his son, "you would like to remain his heir."  
  
"I would prefer to be his lieutenant."  
  
"Well said, my son," said Hallor with a broad smile. "Let's go home." 

The quiet of the evening was settling on Thurnost, the time of talk and quiet chores at the fire, as they walked together along the unpaved paths skirting the workshops, small homes, stables and granaries of the Rangers' secret fortress. Halbarad wondered how Aragorn would react to what must look like meanness compared to the splendor of the Elves?Except for the Great Hall at the very south, with its circular tower that reached almost to the height of the walls, the buildings of the Keep were low, fashioned of wood, and seemingly the dwellings of common folk. The men and women who lived there were few now, in the last settled Dúnedain town of what had once been the kingdom of Arnor.

A lute struck up from one of the homes as they passed, joined by a woman's soft voice. _She sings to her children, as my mother used to do._ A brief sadness passed over him; so many years since that death, but still he remembered.  
  
Inside their four-room house, built up against the wall of the Keep near the Commons, his sister sat at the fire, mending her healer's dress. A kettle steamed at the fire. "All is well, Idhril?" asked their father. 

"Yes, papa. No accidents or new illnesses today."

"There is great news, daughter. Halbarad will tell you."

And so for the third time he told his tale. Idhril's face grew in interest and happiness as he spoke. "May it be true!"

"We will know soon enough," Hallor said. "Well, I will go to bed and sleep on it. It's an early day tomorrow." He took the stairs to the loft above that he shared with his son.

"And what do you think, brother?" Idhril asked when their father had gone, handing Halbarad a cup of sweet tea.

Halbarad accepted it gratefully and took a full sip before he spoke. "I wonder if Aragorn knows what he faces here at the Keep. If he does, it's a marvel he has the courage to come at all. He will need the feet of a giant to fill those shoes."

And Idhril nodded her head in agreement.


	8. Queen's Falcons

As they waited for Halbarad's return, Hawk ordered the men to resume patrols. Either he, Goenor, Damrod or Malbeth remained in camp with Aragorn and one of the boys, who took turns joining the scouts. Aragorn said, "I would be honored to join the patrol," but Hawk shook his head. "You are yet our guest."  
  
 _Yet untrusted, you mean._ Aragorn knew better than to take it amiss. Such cautions had a purpose.  
  
Each morning he swam in a nearby small pond, glorying in the silky water and the feel of his naked body slicing through the cool depths. He learned the men's whistling signals of their approach, and listened to their tales of watching the road. Each day he explored the area close by the camp, set traps for small game, gathered brush and chopped wood for fire. Rodnor or Rodnion—depending on who was at the camp—followed him, peppering him with questions. "What are Elves like?" "How old are they, really?" "Can we go to Rivendell?"

  
They made him smile, these boys like half-grown saplings, elbows and feet all awkward. _So I was myself not long ago, but I knew no other boy to compare._

He got to know something of each man. Malbeth was a skilled singer, worthy to be heard in Elrond's hall. Damrod, still suspicious, was a strong archer and an excellent woodsman. Goenor carried a thick oak quarterstaff, as deadly as any sword; his bawdy humor made the time run. Hawk was patient as a spider, all-seeing and sharp.  
  
He learned that Malbeth was the twins' older brother, and Hawk was their grandfather. 

"It's unusual for so many sons in a family to become Rangers." Malbeth carefully wiped his lute with a soft scrap of wool as he spoke. "Our father was killed by Orcs, and our mother wished us to take his place in the ranks of the Rangers, all three. 'To keep another woman's husband safe,' she said, 'and avenge your father.' She was a brave woman."

"You say 'was,' I note," Aragorn said, watching Malbeth's earnest, matter-of-fact face as he worked lovingly on his instrument.

"She died some eight years ago. The twins were still very small. Hawk has raised us since then."

"I am sorry." 

Malbeth shrugged. "The life of the Dúnedain is hard. You are fortunate to have lived with the Elves."

"Yes." But Aragorn felt a curious sense of loss. He belonged neither here nor there.

Malbeth began picking out a gentle tune on his lute, whispering snatches of verses. "Grey wings gliding, gliding," he sang softly. "Sharp eyes guarding, guarding, falcons ever watching o'er the children of the West."

"A new song?" asked Aragorn.

"Yes, for the queen's falcons. Do you know about them?"

"My mother mentioned them to me, and since coming I have heard the scream of a hunting bird I did not know."

"Their call— _keee kee keeeee_ , I hear, and I wonder what they say to us. So I will write a song to find out. Perhaps they welcome you home."

_Home? Nothing tells me I've been here before._ "Tell me."

"They are peregrines. My mother told me stories about them often when I was a boy. Queen Isilmë, Elendil's wife, brought a mated pair from Númenor. During the glory days of Arnor they lived near our fortresses and great cities, and flourished at Annúminas. They nest in the towers of the Keep, and guard us from the spying of evil birds. They're so fierce and strong that they kill birds of their own size. The elders say that but for them our secret fortress would have long ago been found out by the Enemy."

Just then, the falcon's scream sounded from the east. Malbeth smiled. "They know I'm talking about them."

When Rodnion and Rodnor were in camp together, Aragorn taught them the sword. Fashioning two heavy wooden sticks into smooth, short staves, he bound them with leather. "Build up your strokes by ten each day, to build your strength." He made a longer, thicker one for himself.

"Can't we fight each other?" Rodnor cried, waving his stave at his brother.

"Not so unprotected," Aragorn said. "Wait till we have padded tunics."

"At the Keep," Hawk said. "How many times have we argued about this?" He shot Rodnor a disapproving look. "We save live blows for the enemy."

Lifting his long stick, Aragorn struck Rodnor's stave aside, sending it flying. "Meanwhile, practice your moves."

Toward noon on the fourth day of waiting, as he brushed down Brelach, Aragorn heard the low whistle that a man approaching the camp made to warn of his coming. 

Goenor soon strode into the clearing. "Hallor's on his way. Hawk spotted four horsemen on the road beyond the ridge. By mid afternoon they'll be here."

"Four?"

"Can't say who they are for sure, but I'd expect Halbarad to be with him. Maybe Ingold and Daeron as well—they are the captains in the Keep right now."

Aragorn nodded and turned back to Brelach's mane.

Goenor grinned. "Maybe you ought to comb your own hair, too."

Aragorn smiled—Goenor's teasing reminded him of his foster brothers. "Don't I fit in better this way?"

Goenor's grin broadened to a laugh. "It'll be a while before the Elf wears off, I think."

But when glimpses of the horsemen appeared through the trees, Goenor said, "I see three men and a woman. Ivorwen, I would guess." He turned to Aragorn with a warm smile. "Gilraen's mother."

As they approached Aragorn rose and stood motionless in the middle of the open ground, willing himself to calmness and quiet.

The travelers dismounted and led their horses into the clearing: a grave-faced, grey-haired man with the wide brow of the House of Isildur and an air of command; a gaunt, powerfully built man with shrewd eyes; and a woman with a worn, kindly face and large, expressive grey eyes. Halbarad, following up the rear, grinned in welcome.

The grey-haired man paced slowly to Aragorn and bowed his head gravely. "I am Hallor son of Halveleg. On behalf of the Dúnedain of the North, I bid you welcome."

Aragorn returned the formal bow. "I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, returned from Rivendell to my people. _Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo_."

A small smile lifted Hallor's firm mouth. " _Elen sila lúmenn' omentielvo._ " He turned to his companions. "Can there be any doubt, my friends?"

The woman, her eyes alight with yearning, ran forward and grasped Aragorn's hands in her own work-worn ones. "It is he! Aragorn, my grandson!"

Aragorn looked into her face, but no memory stirred. Out of duty and warmth sparked by her manifest love, he embraced her. "Grandmother, it is my honor to greet you."  
  
She kissed his face, then turned to gesture to the other travelers. "I will not be selfish. There are others to welcome you. But you know Halbarad."  
  
Halbarad surged forward and clapped Aragorn on the shoulder. "Well met yet again, cousin!"  
  
The gaunt man strode forward, his eyes yet distant. "I am Ingold. Truly, you do appear to be Arathorn's son. You will forgive us if we are reluctant to give all our trust, since we have had no word all these years."  
  
Hallor said, "Perhaps Aragorn will tell us something of that time."

Aragorn looked from face to face, where hope warred with doubt. "I have come from Rivendell, as you guess, where my mother and I have been under Master Elrond's protection."  
  
Ingold let out a huff of disapproval. "If you call abducting a woman of the Dúnedain and her son 'protection.'"  
  
Hallor turned to him with a stern look. "As I have already reminded you, that was not Aragorn's doing."  
  
"And Elrond sends us no word of apology or explanation?"  
  
"He sent word with me," Aragorn said. "He bade me tell you this, that he can give no satisfaction to the Dúnedain in their discontents. You will judge the worth of his actions in the worth of the Heir of Isildur."  
  
"Spoken with true Elven arrogance," Ingold said. "Lofty and above the everyday concerns of Men."

Hallor's sternness hardened into a frown. "Our quarrel with Elrond is for his ears alone."  
  
"We may have a quarrel with Aragorn as well," Ingold said with blunt hardness. "What do you say about Elrond's actions?"  
  
Willing his rising temper to cool, Aragorn met Ingold's challenging eyes. "A man who questions the worth of Elrond's actions is a fool. If I have learned nothing else, I have learned that."  
  
"Come now, Aragorn," Hallor said, his voice thick with tension. "These words will not mend matters. And you, Ingold, hold your tongue. I speak for the Dúnedain here. Aragorn, this is a hard matter. And so I ask you: Why have you yourself sent no word to your kin? Why didn't the Heir of Isildur seek out news of his people? Did you petition Elrond to open the Valley once again to the Dúnedain?"  
  
"My answer, Hallor, is simple: I did not know my father's name until a month ago."  
  
Hallor stared at him. Ivorwen murmured with chagrin. Ingold gaped in amazement. Behind them, Halbarad looked straight into Aragorn's eyes with a small, sympathetic shake of his head.  
  
"You did not know," Hallor said slowly. "Your own identity was hidden from you?"  
  
"From all," Aragorn said. "At Elrond's command." _My father, what a hard place you have made for me now._ He hoped desperately that no bitterness or question sounded in his voice.

Hallor swore under his breath. "And you learned the truth a month ago, you say?"  
  
"Yes. Elrond told me my true name, and gave into my keeping the shards of Narsil and the Ring of Barahir. Not long after, I left the Valley to seek the Dúnedain."  
  
"Against Elrond's will?"

"He did not try to dissuade me."   
  
"And what of Gilraen?" Hallor asked. "What part did she play in this mischief?"  
  
Aragorn stirred from his quiet stance. "Why must you call it mischief? What cause have you to question Elrond's actions? My mother fully supported them. She remains now in the Valley as Elrond's honored guest."  
  
His grey brows joined in a frown, Hallor fell silent. Then he shrugged briefly, and held out his hand to Aragorn. "These matters are best pursued at a later time, I judge. For now, I bid you welcome. The sooner we return to the Keep, the better."  
  
Aragorn clasped Hallor's strong, rough hand and nodded. _Just as well—I will soon lose my temper if this continues. Shall my first memorable act among my people be a fit of anger?_  
  
Hallor turned to his son. "Halbarad, you will come with us to the Keep. Ingold, I wish you to take charge of this patrol, and increase the watch on the road for the next two weeks. Then report, and we will make further dispositions then."  
  
"Yes, father," said Halbarad. Ingold gave a curt nod, and turned to the matters at hand.  
  
In the ensuing bustle of activity, Ivorwen approached Aragorn. "Come, let's get to know each other a little, to make up for these lost years."

Aragorn liked her soft face, warm with a wisdom that reminded him of Elven age. _Perhaps I can find some piece of the lost years—perhaps she can help me remember the father I do not know._ "I would like that. But I must first give you the letter I have brought from my mother." He reached inside his jerkin to pull out Gilraen's small package, an embroidered cloth wrapped and bound with a silk cord. Inside, he knew, were a letter and a lock of her hair. "With this she bade me send you her dearest love."  
  
She cried out and took the letter eagerly. "Do you mind if I read it now?"  
  
"Of course not." He smiled and took her hand. "I fear it is short—she dared not write too much too openly, in case it would go astray."  
  
Indeed, the letter was closely written on a scrap of parchment, but Ivorwen pressed it and the lock of hair to her lips and read the words avidly. She looked up at Aragorn. "Estel, she writes here. Is that you?"  
  
"That is what she calls me, yes."  
  
"And the name you have known all your life, till now?"  
  
"Yes. I don't remember being called anything else, till now."  
  
Her eyes warmed with kindness. "It is a good name. All these years I have followed your growth in my heart, seeing a boy growing taller and becoming a man. And now I see my heart was not wrong. How we all have longed to see you! Dírhael and Iorlas are at Sarn Ford, I fear, and will not return till winter is near. Beleg, too, is gone from the Keep, and he above all others will want to see Arathorn's son. But Saelind must be first."  
  
"Beleg, I know, was my father's closest comrade," Aragorn said. "But I'm afraid I don't know Saelind."  
  
"Your great-grandmother and Arathorn's grandmother," she answered, looking surprised. "Hallor's grandmother, too for that matter. She is now one hundred and seventy-six years old, and frail."  
  
"Forgive me," Aragorn said. "But I am still learning the names of my own kin."   
  
"Yes, it must be very strange to meet us at last after all these years! She speaks of you often. I believe she waits, hoping that she might see you before she dies. I'm sorry to tell you such sad news, but for her, it will be a great blessing that you have come now. Maybe, indeed, it is no accident, but meant to be this way. I have been having dreams of the green stone, the same dream that I had when you were born. Do you know what I mean?"  
  
_Yet more tales untold, things unsaid?_ "No, I have not heard this story."  
  
She looked into his eyes. "I have a gift. No wonder that my daughter didn't speak of it, since it frightens her. In the last days before you were born and for a time after, I dreamed of a brooch with a shining green gem, an elfstone with the color and light of spring itself. It was fashioned like the body of an eagle with great wings outstretched as if it reached for the sun. There was an awe about it, and I knew it had some great meaning, but in the dream I saw nothing else. The same dream has come to me several times in the last weeks. Then I knew it meant that you would come. It is strange, but you must know of such things, having lived among the Elves as you have."  
  
"Perhaps you have mistaken the meaning of this dream. The stone you describe sounds like that worn by Eärendil on his great journey. I've seen drawings of it in Rivendell. It is not likely to be about me."  
  
Ivorwen shook her head. "It is about you. I don't know how or why. Who knows when it will be revealed to you? But it is your fate, that I have seen. Why or how, I can't say, except that it was a thing of great beauty."  
  
"I will remember it." Aragorn wondered if his own dreams came from his grandmother's blood. _So much is expected of me—and what do I expect of myself?_   
  
"My gift has its limits," Ivorwen said. "I do not See warnings of evil. But the Dúnedain have learned to heed my dreams, as will you, and my recognition of you will count for much with the people of the Keep."

"I owe you more than a grandson's respect and love, I see," said Aragorn.

"There can be no doubt, not truly. You are your father's son, all can see for themselves. These other troubles will be sorted out in time."

He nodded, but made no other answer. _What about the trouble in my heart?_

"It will take time," she repeated, as if in answer to his question.

A raised voice behind him drew Aragorn's attention, and he turned his head to see Ingold and Hallor face to face across the clearing, Ingold's right fist pounding into his left hand as he argued. Aragorn quickly turned his head back to his grandmother, but she, too, was watching the two men.

"We are a prideful people, weighed down by history," Ivorwen said. 

And the queen's falcon cried its assent: _keeeee kee kee_.


	9. The Hidden Fortress

 

They lingered at the camp only to water and rest the horses, and re-provision for the two-day journey to Thurnost. Readying his gear and mount for the ride, Aragorn had no more time for further talk with his grandmother. He exchanged a brief greeting and arm clasp with Halbarad, who said only, "At camp tonight."

Rodnor trotted after him as he packed. "Will you stay? Stay at the Keep, I mean?"   
  
"No more than any other Ranger," he answered, smiling at the boy's eager young face.  
  
As they traveled single file down the woody path, Halbarad struck up a Númenorean marching song. Aragorn did not know it, and it did not quite keep time with the horses' steps, but he soon picked up the tune and joined the song with the others.  
  
He knew that he had traveled these roads as a small boy hidden in his mother's arms. He remembered only a dark and wordless terror, perhaps from those days, perhaps from some childhood nightmare. _How strange memory is! I can remember the scent of the roses in Elrond's garden but not the face of my own father._  
  
That moment of recognition still eluded him when Brelach cleared the top of the cleft in the stubby ridge of hills that divided the Angle into its northern and southern parts. The lands of the Dúnedain lay beyond—heathery hillocks and gentle valleys melting into the distance, with a sharp stark peak marking the farthest reach of the eye.  
  
"Thurnost," Hallor said, halting his horse and turning back to Aragorn who rode behind him. "The Hidden Fortress. The tales say that Númenoreans built it before the Downfall, during the days of Lond Daer, carving into the cliffs a secret watch tower over the river's approach from the south. Elendil enlarged it, but few folk lived here besides the garrison. When the Northern Kingdom was divided, this land fell to Rhudaur, and the fortress was abandoned and forgotten. The chieftains reclaimed it."  
  
As Aragorn drew Brelach to a halt and gazed into the far distance, he saw the falcons wheeling in wide turns above the green lands, hunting. "My brothers told me about coming here with Aranarth to find the way."  
  
Hallor started in surprise. "Your brothers?"

"Elladan and Elrohir," Aragorn said. "Elrond raised me as his foster son."  
  
"I see."  
  
Aragorn did not miss the wrinkle of tension in Hallor's brow, but they spoke no more.  
  
A light rain began to fall as they made their way down the wooded slope to the lands beyond. Tumbled rocks marked the trail from time to time, and Halbarad sounded a whistling signal as they passed each one. Soon other paths began to branch off to the left and right, leading, Aragorn was told, to small farms and orchards where the people lived.  
  
They rode for a way in the dark before halting for a night's rest, making a camp sheltered from the view of the road by a stand of trees. The rain had stopped, and the sky cleared to reveal a myriad of stars. They shared waybread and the roast venison, with a skin of Rivendell wine to wash it down.   
  
Hallor steered the conversation to the doings of the men and women of the Angle, speaking of that year's harvest, the number of children born, illnesses and deaths. Aragorn listened in silence. _He does not speak of the Rangers. Is this custom—or mistrust?_ The acting chieftain described rather the scattered settlements of Dúnedain across the Northern Downs, in the Tower Hills, and at Sarn Ford, where the people lived a harsh life. "In the last year, more of our folk have come to the Angle for protection. I fear it is only a matter of time before the Eye is turned to the North," Hallor muttered, his face grim.  
  
Later, after the others had curled up in their bedrolls, Halbarad joined Aragorn at the fire. They sat together in silence for a while, watching the orange flames, until Halbarad said in a low voice, "What was your name?"  
  
But Aragorn shook his head. "Never mind. I don't wish to use it here."  
  
"I understand," Halbarad said, but Aragorn didn't see how he could. "There is much amiss among us, you know—fears, deaths, troubles of all kinds. Some say the Dúnedain have lost favor with the Valar. My father does his best to keep the differing parties together. Now, with this news of Sauron, the tensions will increase."  
  
"And I walk into it out of nowhere."  
  
'Perhaps not by chance."  
  
Aragorn studied his cousin's face, lit by the dancing flames of the fire. "Tell me of the Rangers, whatever you can say."  
  
And so Halbarad talked, now of himself and his family, now of the people living scattered on the land, "hidden in the valleys, and building into the hillsides to draw attention to this place." He spoke about the training of the Rangers, young men chosen to live in the Wild, guarding the people from its dangers, and having little home of their own. He talked about his first Ranging outside of the Angle, when he had seen an Elf for the first time. "I will not speak of our secrets and defenses, for my father would not wish it. He will choose the time for that."  
  
"And how long will he wait?"  
  
Halbarad shrugged. "If I know my father at all, it's no doubt about you that holds him back. It's rather how best to handle the others. I expect it will sort itself out in time."  
  
"I expect it will depend on me."  
  
Halbarad looked at him sharply. "Much will depend on you, it's true. But none of us can remake this world, and too many have lost hope. That is no fault of yours, nor can you do much to mend it."  
  
Aragorn stirred at Halbarad's use of his childhood name, but he did not speak of it. "What about you? What about the rest of our family?" He chose deliberately to say "our."  
  
"What would you like to know?"  
  
"I know almost nothing, barely even their names."  
  
"There are few enough. So many have died. Beleg still mourns Ariel."  
  
"My father's sister is dead?"  
  
"Eight years ago. My own mother died when I was a boy."  
  
"I am sorry. I did not know your mother had died."  
  
"Yes, but too long ago to be a near grief. My father has buried two wives. His first died giving birth to the youngest of my four half-sisters, and he married my mother not long after." Halbarad's eyes twinkled. "My sisters vie with each other to play mother to me. Fortunately, only Idhril still lives at Thurnost."  
  
"You have no brother?"  
  
Halbarad tossed a twig into the fire. "No brother, except you."  
  
Smiling, Aragorn offered his hand. "Indeed, seeing you for the first time I felt I was looking in a mirror. We will be more than cousins."  
  
Halbarad reached his hand for a firm clasp of Aragorn's forearm. "May we be sworn sword brothers, when the time comes!"  
  
~oOo~  
  
The sweet agony of dreaming about Arwen assailed Aragorn again that night.  
  
_"Tonight," she whispered as he took her hand after dinner in Elrond's hall. And when at last the lush dark embraced the Valley, he crept barefoot along the balcony skirting the length of the house to her rooms. The day's warmth lingered in the stone under his feet, and the moon hung like a gold face in the black sky.  
  
She slipped her slender hands along his shoulders and kissed him. He drew her into his arms and pressed his lips to her hair, her eyes, her mouth. He felt the softness of her breasts against his chest, and her beating heart, her velvet skin, her quickening breath became his world._  
  
_She cried out when he entered her, and their bodies and hearts became one. Is this the bonding the poets speak of? he wondered as he lay, spent, beside her, caressed by night breezes and the fall of her hair against his face._  
  
He woke trembling, heartsick with desire, and rolled onto his back to stare at the unreachable stars glimmering with light like her eyes. Beside him Halbarad murmured in his sleep, and the night fog crept over the land of the Dúnedain.  
  
~oOo~  
  
In the misty grey dawn they struck camp and headed south at a good pace, stopping only to rest the horses as needed. The land gave way to a grey-green heath where sheep and goats grazed; small farm plots nestled on the southern slope of the rolling hills. Aragorn saw stone doorways built into the hillsides, and low stone walls covered with thorny vines. From time to time a man or woman turned from the task at hand to watch them pass, but the people were few.   
  
The land began to climb again and the grassy track widened and hardened into packed earth as they approached the looming walls of Thurnost. Halbarad called a greeting as they passed a farm cart laden with harvest. He pointed ahead to the black rock ahead. "Aragorn, Thurnost is surrounded on all sides by water—the two rivers coming together, and a deep inlet between them. Only a wall of stone joins it to the rest of the Angle, and that's where the hidden entrance lies. The only other way to get in is a low tunnel on the water. You can't even see it unless you are right upon it, but inside is a b arred gate to our harbor." He turned to Aragorn with a grin. "Something less than the defenses of Gondolin, I fear."

"But it has stood these two Ages, has it not?"

"So they say." He pointed to the west. "Over there, you see the small hills some miles distant? The barrows of the Chieftains. Our great-grandfather is buried there."  
  
Aragorn gazed at the quiet mounds. _Our mortality is never out of mind. But my grandfather's body was never found, and my father sleeps in an unmarked grave in the mountains. Where will I rest?_  
  
The sun hung low in the sky when the road made a sharp turn to the left, skirting a knoll of black rock that curled like an arm across the narrow but deep inlet that separated Thurnost from the rest of the Angle. On its other side loomed a wide archway, barred with a heavy wooden door and a black crossbar. Two guards, each bearing spear and sword, stood under flaming torches to each side of the doorway. They wore the green and brown of Rangers, but with iron-studded leather jerkins and plain helms.  
  
A third man quickly mounted a waiting horse and rode to greet them.   
  
"Greetings, Daeron," called Hallor as they approached. "You had word of our coming, I see."  
  
"The guards reported it some hours ago," the man called Daeron said. His grim mouth did not smile, and an ugly scar slashed down his brow and across an empty eye socket.   
  
"Halbarad's news is true," Hallor said. "Here is Aragorn, returned to us at last."  
  
Daeron cast one cold eye on Aragorn and did not smile. "Welcome to Thurnost, my lord." 

 


	10. Wise Heart

Content in the deep down of a large bed, Aragorn woke to the watery light of the early sun, peaking through the half-open shutter into the corners of the room. _It was a dream. I am still in Rivendell._  


  
Then with a start he remembered where he was: the chamber his parents had shared together, vacant for eighteen years, now his. He turned on to his back and stared up at the carved beams of the dark ceiling. _The room where I was born._ He rose from the bed, stretching and shivering a little from the cool air on his sleep-warmed skin. _How lovely to sleep naked between soft sheets, newly bathed, after days in the wild._

While the large, shadowy room had none of the elegance of Rivendell, the bed was sturdy and comfortable. A stout wooden chair stood in front of the empty grate; a massive chest rested in one corner; and the pale morning light fell on a small table and clothes press against the far wall. 

In a small, curtained alcove he found a washstand with basin and pitcher. He splashed some water on his face and threw on fresh clothes from his pack. 

Determined to make a bold start to his first day in Thurnost, he flung open the chamber door and nearly fell over a slumbering form propped on a bench in the hallway. Wild eyes flew open, and with a gasp, the skinny girl jumped up. Bobbing a curtsey like a puppet on a string and clutching her apron, she stammered, "My lord—good morning—forgive me—my lord. Oh, the mistress will have my head!" 

He put out his hand to help her steady herself. "Never mind," he said, smiling at her flushed face. "Please sit and calm yourself."

"Oh, no!" she shook her head. "I am here to serve you, or I should be, only I fell asleep."

"As you see, I need no service, and am looking only for my breakfast. Where do I go?"

"The Commons, my lord. This way."

"Wait—you have not told me your name."

"Fíriel, my lord." She bobbed again.

"Then, Firiel, I will follow you."

With an uncertain smile, she led the way through an airy solar before turning into a wide gallery skirting on three sides a vast, two-storied hall. Looking down into the wide space he saw two great hearths in the stone walls. Rough wooden tables lined the room, and dark carven beams stretched across the wood ceiling. He followed his guide down a broad flight of stairs.

"Here, my lord. You should sit at the great table."

On a low dais across the back of the hall, a heavier and more polished—but empty—table beckoned. He looked down at his guide. "There is no one here."

"Not yet, my lord, but they will come. The mistress is in the kitchen."

"And she is?"

The girl's eyes widened with wonder. "Why, Mistress Ivorwen, my lord. Your grandmother. She is the warden of the Commons."

"Show me to the kitchen."  
  
Fíriel looked scandalized, but evidently thought better of objecting. She nodded and resumed her lead through a wide doorway. A scrawny, half-grown cat darted her path as she scolded, "Shoo, shoo."  
  
Ivorwen, enveloped in a vast apron, her hair bound in a cloth, was kneading bread when Aragorn entered the warm kitchen. She smiled, "Good morning! I am covered in flour and will not embrace you. Fíriel, you did not fetch the hot water."  
  
"Mistress," the girl stammered, but Aragorn interrupted. "I did not need it."

Ivorwen looked like she knew better, but she said nothing and resumed her kneading. A pretty, plump woman, slicing apples and also swathed in apron and headcloth, glanced up. A small child clutched her skirts, staring up at Aragorn with big eyes, her long, ginger-colored braids falling over a small hand. She shrieked and hid her face under her mother's apron.

"Tut, tut," said Ivorwen, smiling fondly. "Come, child, behave yourself."

"I am so sorry!" gasped the mother, trying to pry her daughter out of her skirts. "I am Ríannon, Iorlas's wife, and this creature here is Lalaith, your cousin, if you can bear the idea. Child, child," she said to her daughter. "Say 'hello' to your cousin Aragorn."

"No!" She began to cry.

Ríannon looked up at him ruefully. "She is shy. I am so sorry. I hope you like children. Do you?"

"I don't know," Aragorn said. "In Rivendell I was always the youngest. How old is she?"

Ivorwen dropped her dough and placed her floury hands on her cheeks. "Of course! Of course you have not known any children! How strange we must all seem to you!" She wiped her hands on her apron and took her granddaughter up into her arms. "Shh," she said to the crying child, soothing her back. She smiled at Aragorn. "She is five. They are just like puppies and kittens, full of curiosity and frights."

Aragorn smiled in return. The little girl, a charming imp, pressed her face against her grandmother's neck. In between wails, when she forgot to be afraid, she peeped out at the stranger, her eyes wide with wonder. Then she again buried her face.

Recovering from her surprise at his words, Ríannon said, "Let me introduce you to the baby." She pointed to a small cradle tucked in a nook by the warm hearth. Aragorn looked down to see a bundle of blankets wrapped around a tiny face with dark sleepy eyes. 

"He is two weeks old," Ríannon said softly, "Dírgon, our first son. His father and grandfather have not seen him yet."

Aragorn gazed at the little creature in astonishment. _Was I once this small?_ The child yawned like a cat and blinked his eyes. A little hand lay curled by his chin. Aragorn looked up at the two women, who were watching him with big smiles. He laughed. "He is delightful."

Ríannon rolled her eyes. "Yes, as long as you aren't the one getting up all night to feed him."

"Speaking of food," Ivorwen said with a smile, "Are you looking for breakfast, Aragorn? We have porridge and milk. Lalaith, will you show your cousin where to find the bowls?"

The child wriggled out of her arms onto the floor and began jumping up and down. "Find the bowls, find the bowls!" she chanted as she skipped to the pantry door.

Fíriel made as if to dart after her, but Aragorn shook his head with a smile and followed his small cousin. Seemingly, her shyness had now vanished, and she sat with him while he ate, prattling and solemnly offering him a wooden toy soldier, saying, "This is for you." Smiling as he accepted it from her gravely, he was suddenly full of regret for the childhood among his own people that he had missed. Ríannon and Ivorwen bustled about, stacking loaves of bread, butter and cheese, honey and jam on trays.

After eating, he stepped out the back door of the kitchen into the growing light of what promised to be a brisk, bright day of early autumn. Above him loomed the central tower of the Keep and its surrounding walls, etched with pathways and ramparts. A falcon soared against the blue of the sky, calling _kee kee keeee_. Built into the rock wall was a stable built for a good two dozen horses, where he found Brelach contentedly munching oats. The horse nickered as Aragorn stroked his nose and greeted him softly. 

"Who are you?" said a voice awkward with the changing tones of the onset of manhood.

He turned to see yet another half-grown boy, uncertainty in his eyes and a frown worrying his brow, staring as intently as had Rodnor and Rodnion. "My name is Aragorn. Thank you for feeding my horse."

The boy snorted. "Aragorn! The Elves stole Aragorn when he was a baby and sent him across the Sea to be a servant of Manwë. It happened a long, long time ago."

"Who told you that nonsense?" Aragorn asked, more amused than angry. 

The boy shrugged. "Everyone."

"Well, 'everyone' is wrong. The Elves do not steal children and no Man goes across the Sea. What is your name, since I have told you mine?" 

The youth stared suspiciously for a brief moment, then shrugged and said proudly, "I am Caldhros, Ingold's son."

"Well met, Ingold's son. I am Arathorn's son. We will get to know one another better. There's porridge in the kitchen. Perhaps you'd like some."

The boy vanished, and Aragorn turned his attention to the horse, stroking his long muzzle. "How do you like this place, old friend?" he whispered. "We have left your birthplace and come to mine."

He was brushing Brelach's dark coat when Halbarad found him. "Good morning, cousin. I've been sent to fetch you. We're to visit our great-grandmother, and my sister Idhril has ordered me to make sure you are properly dressed, though since you look much grander than all the rest of us, I can't imagine what she means." 

Aragorn looked down at his fine white shirt, dark green tunic and leggings—everyday dress in Rivendell."I have little else."

Halbarad grinned. "Oh, that's fine for today. No doubt Idhril will find you some old things to make you look just like everyone else. She's good at running other people's lives. I am also supposed to tell you to bring Narsil. Our great-grandmother wants to see it."

Halbarad followed him back to his room, where he found the door open and Fíriel within, one hand holding a damp cloth and the other reaching for the worn scabbard holding the shards of the sword of Elendil, which Aragorn had laid reverently on top of the huge, ancient chest.

"Don't touch that!" snapped Aragorn, and immediately rued the sharpness of his tone.

She jerked around, blushing even more deeply. "Pardon me, my lord, but I thought—it is so shabby, you deserve a better—"

"It is beyond my worth," he said, trying to speak gently, "and it is my charge." 

She backed away as if from a burning coal, and he picked up the scabbard and thrust it into his sword belt. "I'll bring the medicines from Elrond, too," he said, pulling out the carefully wrapped package from his bag. "We are going to the healer's cottage, yes?"

"Yes," Halbarad said. "She lives there now, under Idhril's care."

The healer's cottage, low and snugly built, stood in the sunniest part of the Keep, surrounded by trees and a garden. Aragorn recognized several of the herbs growing there, and wondered where he would find the nearest patch of _athelas_ , which grew only wild and could not be cultivated. Idhril was plucking leaves from a lemon balm shrub. Placing her cullings and knife in a small basket, she rose to greet them. "Our father is already here. She is well today, and overjoyed to expect Aragorn."

Aragorn had met Idhril briefly the night before, and liked her clear, frank eyes and brisk manner. "I've brought the herbs and salves from Rivendell. Perhaps we can talk healer's business after I meet our great-grandmother."

She nodded, and led the way into the cottage. She stood aside at the door to a sunny room with windows looking over the garden, and gestured them to enter. Saelind, widow of the chieftain Argonui, who had died thirteen years before Aragorn was born, was reclining on a cushioned couch by a low fire. Hallor sat beside her.

"You will forgive me, my lords, if I do not rise to greet you," the old lady said, her voice rough with age. Her white braids were wound around her head, a black shawl embroidered in silver swathed her shoulders. Despite her wrinkles she was beautiful with a bone-deep fineness. She held out her hand to clasp Halbarad's as he murmured his greeting and kissed her cheek. Then she shifted her eyes to Aragorn. He moved forward, bowed his head in respect and kissed her dry, frail hand. Her eyes were deep and dark, her grasp of his fingers weak but warm.

"You have returned to us, Aragorn," she said. 

Aragorn answered, "I am honored to meet you."

"Oh, you have met me before," she said with a smile. "But possibly you don't remember sitting on my lap and repeating nursery rhymes."

He laughed. "No, I regret to say, I don't."

"Just as well." A playful mockery shone in her eyes. "Men don't like having such stories told of them, and I'm impressed that you take it with such good grace. I promise not to mention it again."

Halbarad was grinning. "Better hold her to that, Aragorn."

She favored her other great-grandson with a mock stern look. "Don't be impertinent, sir." She turned her eyes again to Aragorn. "You have grown well, great-grandson. I knew that Elrond would not fail us. He remembers better the duty of the Dúnedain than we do ourelves. Sit down, all of you, but Aragorn must sit beside me. I must talk to the Heir of Isildur."

A sturdy chair stood just beside her couch. Aragorn sat down and placed Narsil in its scabbard across his knees. She said, "You have the sword of Elendil, I see. Let me see the blade."

He drew it with care and gently laid the hilt and shortened blade across her lap. With reverence she touched the engraving on the sword, tracing the shape of the letters and the sun and moon. The letters ended abruptly where the last twelve inches had shattered. "I remember the first time I saw this. When Arassuil, my husband's grandfather, decided to give up his life, he passed Narsil to his son, Arathorn, the first of that name. We gathered in the Commons to witness it. I was only ten years old, but it was so solemn a thing that I never forgot, although I understood little at the time. Arassuil was my grandmother's brother, and so the grief was for family as well as the chieftain." She stroked the hilt of the sword with her fingertips, then indicated that Aragorn should take it back. He resheathed it with care.

Saelind gestured to Hallor to give her water. As she drank he said, "Perhaps, grandmother, you should not try to say everything all at once."

"I'm not dead yet, Hallor," she said with a wry tone, but her eyes glowed with a warmth that showed her affection. Turning her gaze to Aragorn, she continued softly, "Things must now be made right. Much rests on you."

He bowed his head in acknowledgment.

She looked at Hallor then. "Are they still grumbling against Elrond, now that Aragorn has returned?"

"You know very well that something that has gone that deep will not disappear so quickly. I cannot command the people to change their minds."

"Humph," said the old lady, and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "I would, if I could only stand before the Commons."

Halbarad said, "And no one would dare disobey, great-grandmother. But we are not as awe-inspiring as you."

The old lady rapped his hand sharply. "You had better learn to be, young sir. You know what is at stake."

Aragorn said, "I would like to hear more about this. Already I have heard some of this grumbling, as you call it, but from what you say it's more than a vexing discontent."

Hallor spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. "I believe that the discontent springs from a much deeper source, the losses we have faced in the last years and the fears for our future. The winters are hard, and we are sorely pressed to feed and shelter our people, especially at Sarn Ford and Fornost. What seemed to be the withdrawal of Elrond's favor is seen as a cause of this—unjustly so, I believe."

Saelind said, "They complain of both too much and too little attention from Elrond, it seems to me. But even the Lord of Rivendell is not all powerful."

Hallor smiled. "As you say, grandmother." He looked back at Aragorn. "Let me tell it as it appeared to me: The day my cousin, whom I loved, died, I became the acting chieftain, a thing I had never expected. Only a few years before, Arador was chieftain, with a son of full experience, newly married and with every expectation of sons. Certainly the chieftainship seemed to be the least of our problems, compared to the dangers we face and our ever diminishing numbers."

Saelind said, "It's been our pride and wonder, that despite our loss of lordship, always the line of Elendil has remained strong. Gondor may have power, but we have royalty."

Hallor nodded. "But that too seemed to be threatened. We lost Arador—Saelind's son, your grandfather, my uncle—and then your father, leaving a two-year-old child as chieftain. You. And you and your mother disappeared, taken by the Elves. But we could get no answers. We did not know if you lived. I have never seen Dírhael more wrathful, so much so that I forbade him to come to Rivendell with me. Beleg and I went, seeking answers. But Elrond would not admit us. We wandered for several days seeking the path, but no man can enter the Valley against the will of Elrond. When Elladan and Elrohir met us at last at the Stone, it was to tell us nothing. No Ranger has been to Rivendell since. Did you know this?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "Elrond told me himself."

Hallor looked at him thoughtfully. "Did he say why? Why he did this, as we now know for certain that he did?"

"To protect my life, he said. He had a presentiment of great danger. And he did what he thought was best. The secrecy was necessary, he said."

Hallor frowned. "I still think he should have told me, at least."

Aragorn shook his head. "You don't understand, I think. Elrond knows things that he could not possibly explain to us. I understand it no more than you, but I know to listen to him." _Would that I did understand! Perhaps then my bitterness would ease._

Saelind nodded. "It may be that more will be revealed to us in the future, when Elrond sees the time is right."

"It may," Aragorn said. "But I think it more likely that Elrond himself did not know exactly what he feared. That's what I understood, anyway. I saw no one from outside the Valley, not even visitors to his House, until I grew old enough to scout with Elladan and Elrohir."

"Orc-hunting, you mean?" Hallor said.

"Yes." 

Hallor frowned again. "Why would he send you into danger hunting Orcs if he feared so much?"

"It was the danger to the Heir of Isildur that he feared," Aragorn said. "But as I told you I was not known as the Heir at that time. I had another name. Elrond named me Estel. I've been called by that name as long as I remember."

"Estel." Saelind smiled suddenly, a beaming face of joy. " _Hope_. I like that. And so you were Estel to strangers, who never heard the name Aragorn."

He shook his head. "No, I myself never heard the name Aragorn until a short time ago. I was Estel, Elrond's foster son, and I did not know anything about my ancestry, except that my mother was a remote descendant of Arvedui. I did not know I was Arathorn's son."

Saelind's eyes spoke to him of the wisdom of many years, as unfathomable as the ancient eyes of the Elves. "I begin to understand something now," she said softly. "I see that Elrond was truly afraid. He sees a great future for you."

Aragorn bowed his head. "He says it's my duty to fight against the Shadow. That the new Age of Men depends upon my passing the many tests that face me. I hardly know how to speak of it, it seems like a wild dream. But I hold it as a duty bound. When Elrond says things like that, you listen."

"As you should," Saelind said. "Argonui revered Elrond. He spoke often of the years he spent in Rivendell mastering the sword and learning healing. And you have had many more years there than any other chieftain's son since the days of Valandil. Do you have the skill of the king?"

"In healing, you mean?" Aragorn asked. "Elrond says I have some of it, such as is given to our line in these late days. I am still too young to have the full power, but he said there was no reason to think that I would not equal my father and grandfather."

Saelind smiled with satisfaction. "That is much needed here, and a sign, I believe, that the Heirs of Isildur keep the grace of Númenor. And you have learned also the healing arts of Men?"

"Yes," Aragorn said. "I learned as much of Elrond's knowledge as I could, within the limits of my own ability and my youth."

She looked at him with her deep eyes. "I have known six chieftains, and more by word. As a girl I heard Arassuil tell tales of his father and grandfather, Arahad and Aravorn, going back three hundred years. You are the last of the line. My husband died long ago, my son died over twenty years ago, my grandson has been dead for eighteen years. Even my granddaughter is dead; we lost her in childbirth, along with her son. The line of Isildur is nearly destroyed. You are alone, with no father and no grandfather in the direct line to teach you. You have a heavy responsibility, and I expect no less from you than does Elrond." She spoke quietly and with authority. Looking to Hallor, she said, "You must stand in place of his father and grandfather."

"I fully intend to," Hallor said. 

Then she looked at Halbarad. "And you, your place is at Aragorn's side. Do you understand what it means, _king's man_?"

Halbarad said, "A king's man is one who is sworn to the service of the king in all that is required, even to the death. I am the king's man."

As he spoke the call of the falcon came from the sky in a cry of triumph as if he had just bested his prey. 

Saelind smiled. "The falcon shows the queen's favor." She turned to her grandson. "Hallor, is it true that the harvest is good this year?"

"Yes, it is true. There will be no empty bellies this winter."

"Then I ask you to hold a harvest festival and call the farm folk to the Keep, those who can come. In honor of Aragorn, of course. I will preside."

"It shall be done, grandmother." Hallor bowed his head.

She closed her eyes and fell silent. After a while she said, "I must ask you to leave now. Come back tomorrow, Aragorn."


	11. Prologue: The Legend of Narsil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_ Who made me? _   
Telchar made me.   
"Fire of Aulë, grant your power,"  
He spoke the words that woke my light.  
The smith's blow fell on flaming steel,   
The blade of the Sun and the Moon. 

_ Who blooded me?  _   
Dior blooded me.   
In the Thousand Caves in the last defense  
Blood flowed red and hot  
When Thingol's Heir slew Fëanor's son   
With the blade of the Sun and the Moon. 

_ Who saved me? _   
Elwing saved me.   
From Doriath's ruin the Elven host fled;  
Three treasures they bore from that place of death:   
Fair Elwing, king's daughter; the bright Silmaril;   
And the blade of the Sun and the Moon. 

_ Who chose me? _   
Elros chose me.   
To Westernesse he bore me, to the Land of Gift,  
And when to darkness the kings fell  
The Faithful Lords wielded me yet,  
The blade of the Sun and the Moon. 

_ Who lost me?  _   
Elendil lost me.   
In victory he fell and quenched my light.   
His son cut the Ring from Sauron's hand   
With the broken shard of my keen edge,  
The blade of the Sun and the Moon.  
  
_ Who cherished me?  _   
Valandil cherished me.   
From king to king I passed, from son to son,   
When all other heirlooms were lost,  
The promise of a kingdom remade,  
The blade of the Sun and the Moon. 

_ Who shall reforge me? _   
Who shall he be?  
Who shall be the king restored?   
Who shall lead the host of Men?  
Who shall wield the flame of the West,  
The blade of the Sun and the Moon? 


	12. The First Death

Emerging into the light of day, Aragorn looked up at the clear blue of a fine autumn sky. Halbarad cuffed him on the shoulder. "You have yet to climb the ramparts, I think. Come on, I'll show you the tower and the falcons' nests."

They followed the path along the western wall of the fortress, passing behind the smithy and the carpenter's workshop and around the stables. Before them loomed the round tower of the central ramparts, built into the river cliffs.

Aragorn stared up at the black walls. The rock gleamed as if it were wet, and the faces of the stone had sharp edges as though they had been newly chiseled. "How did they build it? I have seen great beauty in Rivendell, but no strong walls like this."

Halbarad shrugged. "The Númenoreans of old had many arts that are now lost to us. Come, the stairs wind up the tower to the highest lookout."

So hard was the rock of the circling stair that thousands of years and uncountable feet had not worn the steps. The stair wound around the core, passing by narrow windows. A fortified chamber stood on each floor. "The armory," Halbarad said. 

They passed six floors until at last a broad courtyard opened up, with three guardhouses built into the very top of the cliffs. Aragorn scanned the horizon to the north, where the ridge marking the northern end of the Angle rose misty blue against the far sky. To the east he could see the soft green mounds of the Chieftains' barrows.

Calling out a greeting to the lookout, Halbarad led Aragorn through the center guardhouse to a smaller courtyard. Graceful arches enclosed the whole, designs of the broad wings of seabirds edged the top of the walls, covered with carvings of lords and ladies, armed men and horses, swords and shields. At the centermost place the insignia of the House of Elendil in the North stood out in gleaming white, embedded in stone polished to a high gloss: the Seven Stars in an arc around the White Tree of Númenor and, above the topmost star, rayed like the Star of Arnor worn by the king, the Sceptre, Arnor's main symbol of royalty.

Halbarad spread out his arms, as if to embrace the whole. "I like to come here when I need to do a spell of thinking, especially grappling with our heritage. Sometimes it seems like more than a man can bear."

Aragorn knew what he meant. "It's a long way from Númenor."

"And a long time. We hold naming day celebrations at this spot, you know. Both you and I got our names here. One day it will be our sons."

_That will not happen with my son_ , Aragorn thought. He knew this was true, but he did not know why. Was it a good sign—or a sign of doom? Perhaps he would have no son. He said nothing.

Halbarad beckoned Aragorn to the outermost wall, looming like craggy teeth over the fortress. Deep, narrow slits allowed for a view of the silvery river below, coursing south to the Sea. 

Halbarad craned his neck to peer into the sky beyond. "Look over here, you can see one of the falcons' old nests. In the spring they'll build new ones and we'll see chicks. When I was a boy, when I was shirking chores and lessons, I would come here to watch the parents teach their babies to fly and hunt, when I wasn't swimming in the river against my sister's orders."

Through the narrow window Aragorn could see a pile of sticks and twigs hanging from the lip of the rock above. He scanned the sky for a sight of the birds and saw a pair across the river, coasting on a current of air.

"I dream of them sometimes," Halbarad said. "There's one dream that comes to me often, about a fierce battle between the falcons and black carrion crows. I don't know yet who wins."

They fell silent. Halbarad traced the engravings with his tough fingers for some moments before he spoke again. "Sometimes I don't know who has the right of it. I mean, not about you, not about Elrond, but our future. Some of the men argue we should stop Ranging and settle down to farm and take care of our families. They say that soon nothing will be left of us, if we go on as we are. That no one remembers the Dúnedain anyway—we are just legends. You'll see how it is when you go to Bree and the surrounding towns. We're practically outlaws in their eyes, and no one thinks of us as the people of the old kings. We can do little or nothing against Sauron as it is. Perhaps we should just save ourselves, and let the rest of the world take care of itself."

Aragorn shook his head. "I was raised to believe we have a duty to fight for a future for all the Men of Middle-earth. What chance has anyone got if the Dúnedain turn away from the struggle?"

Halbarad nodded. "That's how I see it, too. I don't want my sons to be farmers and shepherds, but lords again. Maybe we can't achieve that, but we certainly won't get there planting wheat." He leaned his arms against the wall and looked down at the river beyond. "Down the river lies Tharbad, or what's left of it. Gondor finally abandoned it some years ago, the year of the big flood. It used to be a great port, now it's a ruin. I wonder if it will ever again be more." He turned to Aragorn. "What was it like, growing up in Rivendell?"

"Have you ever been there?" 

"No, how could I? I'm only three years older than you. As my father said, we haven't gone there for eighteen years."

"How can I describe it? You'll have to see it for yourself. I don't know the rest of the world well enough to compare. The world of Men, that is."

"That you even put it that way says a lot," Halbarad said.

"I suppose it does," he admitted. "It's not that I haven't seen death—all too much of that, I'm afraid. Cruel death at the hands of Orcs."

"You mentioned scouting with the Elves," Halbarad said. "I would guess you've fought Orcs more often than I."

"That may well be," Aragorn shrugged. 

"As Estel, you said."

"Now you know."

"I have to admit I agreed with my father's bewilderment—why send you to fight Orcs when there was such worry for your life?"

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. _Atarinya, you have all my son's love, but I cannot win this battle for you._ "You'll just have to accept it."

Halbarad gave him a sharp look. "For now, anyway. So tell me about it. Did you fight in the mountains?"

"The mountains, and the valley of the Anduin beyond. In the last couple of years Orcs have been raiding the shepherds' flocks on the eastern slopes, and even into the land of the hillfolk north of Rivendell. They were the first Men I ever saw, aside from myself and my mother."

"I'm listening," Halbarad said.

Aragorn leaned against the smooth stone wall. "I first went scouting with my brothers in the spring I turned sixteen. Every year, unless they are abroad, Elladan and Elrohir do at least two sweeps through the High Pass over the mountains from Rivendell, seeking to keep the passage safe. That year I was finally allowed to go with them. Before that, I had scouted the lands near Rivendell, where Orcs seldom came since their defeat in the Battle of the Five Armies some years earlier."

He looked back to that spring, and remembered….

_They found evidence that a raid was in progress against the shepherds on the eastern slopes of the mountains. After a day of hard riding they caught up with the Orcs and destroyed them, but not before the vicious creatures had plundered several crofts, driving off the animals and killing the people. Their rage was vented particularly at one crofter and his wife who fought back to save their two sons from being carried off. The Elves rescued the boys, at the cost of a serious wound to one of Rivendell's warriors, but the man and his wife died. The Orcs had brutally tortured them and left them to die_ _horribly of a slow burning_ _in the smoldering ruins of their cottage._

_The woman was already dead when the Elves found them. The man was dying. As an apprentice healer Estel helped Elladan ease the man's agony, and then watched over his last hours. Once the farmer woke up enough to realize what was happening to him. Bleary eyes, reddened with pain and smoke, peered at the young Man crouched by his side. "Molly," he croaked._

_"I am sorry," Estel said softly. "She died. We could not save her. But your sons are safe. We will find a home for them."_

__

_The man's eyes held a glimmer of some relief. He struggled to speak again but could only move his lips. Estel thought he was trying to say "thank you." He brought a small cup of water up to the man's mouth and helped him drink._

_He did not speak again and died soon after. Estel covered his body with a cloth. Then he went into the bushes and was sick. He was weeping, ashamed of his weakness, when he felt a strong arm close around his shoulders and Elrohir was there. He wept on his foster brother's shoulder, crying out, "They roasted him like a haunch of meat."_

_Elrohir held him till the tears stopped. "How do you bear it?" the youth asked. "How do you keep doing this, time after time?"_

_"Because of this very thing," Elrohir said. "How much worse would it be if we weren't here?"_

_Estel nodded and held on to his brother as if afraid to lose him. "I will find the strength," he said finally._

Aragorn raised his head and looked at Halbarad's drawn and horrified face. "After that my swordsmanship took a dramatic leap, and I studied Elrond's books of healing with intensified devotion."

He paced restlessly along the rampart of the wall of the fortress. "It was only four and a half years ago. Since then my Orc kill count has grown large, and, although I don't find such brutal deaths any easier to bear, I no longer break down at the sight."

Halbarad nodded. "I know the dilemma. You don't want to become hardened to such evil."

"But a mortal death," Aragorn said, "the death of aging—this I do not know. Except in beasts. I think some Elves do look down on us for sharing that with animals."

Halbarad shook his head. "I do not like that. Not at all. Death is sad, but not shameful."

"I said 'some,'" Aragorn replied. "You would never hear that from Elrond. He knows too much about it."

They fell into silence then. Longing for his boyhood home, far from the sorrows of Men, swept Aragorn then: the sparkling streams, the Hall of Fire, the song and poetry. His family. And Arwen: her vivid face filled his sight, the memory of her scent heated his blood. He turned away to hide his face for a slow moment before turning back to face his friend. "You must come to Rivendell with me some day. But I don't wish to speak about it now."

Halbarad's eyes studied him, but he said nothing.


	13. Harvest Festival

Halbarad tore his slice of dark bread in half and mopped up the last bits of savory soup in his bowl.

"Is Aragorn ready for the festival?" asked his sister.

Halbarad swallowed, and licked some drops from his beard. "It's hard to tell with him. Surely you've noticed that for yourself."

She nodded. "Yesterday I showed him the herb stores at the cottage. I confess I was hoping he might open up a bit, but he would discuss only the medicines from Rivendell, and my poultices and salves. And so polite, too."

Hallor lifted his pipe from his mouth. "He's Elrond's foster son."

"Well, father, what is that to me? I've never met Elrond."

The bitterness in her voice startled Halbarad. "Should you have?"

She turned on him, her dark eyes bright. "Our best healers go to Rivendell for training. All, except for the last twenty years. Do you think we have not lost because of that? How many dead could I have saved with better skills?" She plunked down her knife with a thump.

Hallor sighed. "In January, after the captains' council, I will go to Rivendell and make peace with Elrond. In the spring Ivorwen is planning to make a long stay with her daughter, and, with Elrond's permission, you can go with her, or after she returns. Meanwhile, I would prefer to hear no more of this, at least at home. I have to listen to enough of it from the Rangers as it is."

Idhril blinked her eyes and Halbarad saw a glitter of tears. "I apologize, father. It's just that Ariel's death still weighs so heavily with me. It should not have happened, and I can't but feel some fault."

Halbarad knew that Idhril's grief came not only from the loss of her patient, but from her own deep love for Ariel, with whom she had grown up as a sister.

"You can spend your whole life saying 'if only,'" Hallor said. "I've never known it to help anything. I, too, mourn Ariel and her stillborn son. And Beleg will never get over it, I think. But do not lose yourself in regrets for the past when there are so many troubles in the present."

"When will Beleg return?"

"Not till next month, not soon enough. I need his help."

_Indeed we do,_ thought Halbarad. 

Just four days past a messenger had reached Thurnost with news of an Orc raid on the Ranger camp in the northern reach of the Weather Hills—the first such attack since the Battle of the Five Armies had wiped out most of the Orcs in the Misty Mountains ten years earlier. _Or so we thought_ , Halbarad reminded himself. _Were there colonies left in hiding, now emboldened by the rise of Mordor?_ No one knew, but fear fed the mood of discontent in the Keep. While no man had been killed, a Ranger had lost his bow arm to a poisoned blade and had now to face life as a cripple.

"But Beleg is more angry against Elrond than almost anyone," Idhril said.

"Maybe," Hallor answered. "But he won't take it out on Arathorn's son—his anger was that he wanted to foster Aragorn himself. And with his great love of the Elves, he will be happy to forgive and mend things with Rivendell. That's what I count on."

"And Daeron?" Idhril asked.

"Daeron had better mind his temper," Hallor said in a harsher voice than Halbarad usually heard from him.

"Does Aragorn know the story yet?"

"He does not appear to know it. Presumably, therefore, Gilraen did not tell him. I asked grandmother to tell him. It's best from her. Ivorwen wishes it too."

Halbarad exchanged a look with his sister, but they did not speak until their father had left the house. Idhril tapped her foot impatiently. "If you ask me, this is ill done. They should have told him already."

"Who knew Daeron would react this way? He was like a madman yesterday at the sword practice, especially after Aragorn beat him."

"But Aragorn doesn't suspect anything?"

"He thinks Daeron is a very unpleasant fellow, but beyond that, I don't know."

Idhril nodded. "There's a sweetness about him, almost like a child, for all that he could beat any one of you in a tourney."

Halbarad made a face at her. "We'll see about that."

~oOo~

For all its dark plainness, the Commons had its own kind of grandeur. The green branches of fir trees festooned the beams, and fire crackled in the massive hearths. As the evening cast dark shadows against the high ceiling, the women lit candles in sconces on the walls, and a golden glow softened the gloom. Musicians were softly tuning their instruments and warming their voices, and people began to drift into the hall.

Aragorn sat beside Saelind at the great table. An ancient banner, black, with the insignia of Arnor in _mithril_ —so rare, so precious—draped the wall behind them.

Dressed in the royal colors, a silver net over her white hair, Saelind looked every inch the queen."It compares poorly to Rivendell, but we have our dignity."

A girl approached the dais and held out a small posy of flowers. "My lady," she whispered with soft, shy eyes, "my lord. Happy festival."

Saelind took the flowers in her gnarled old hands. "Thank you, child."

Aragorn saw kindness and warmth in her eyes and sweet smile. _She is as gracious as Elrond in the Hall of Fire._ He refilled his goblet with the fragrant golden wine and drank. 

The old lady pursed her lips. "You are very like your father, Aragorn, but not in all things."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

"My grandson had singular views on many matters. He disliked the amount of ale consumed in the Angle, and especially disapproved of that strong Elvish brandy that will on occasion find its way to our table. He would have perhaps disapproved of his son drinking yet another glass of wine." She winked as she sipped at her own.

_I will never know his disapproval any more than his love._ He smiled, and drank again.

Saelind's laugh was a deep-throated chuckle. "He also disliked pipeweed, saying the Elves consider it an uncouth habit."

"I don't know about that. No one ever said so, at least to me."

Her dark eyes twinkled. "It was ever an issue with your father, anyway. He tried to stop the men smoking. He said it was unclean."

Aragorn glanced over to the thick fog of smoke in the far corner of the room, where Rangers and husbandmen stood gossiping, pipes in hand. "And no one listened, I see."

"It particularly irked Hallor. He likes his pipe. Our men have little enough comforts as it is, I think. Personally I don't care for the odor, but I am not one to look down on the vices of others. I have my own vices, after all."

"I find that hard to believe," Aragorn said.

"I don't intend to confess. Besides, I'm too old to practice them any longer. But my grandson was a most virtuous man. Steady, brave, right-thinking. Virtuous to a fault, in fact."

"How is that possible?"

"You are wise for your age, Aragorn, but every now and then you say something that betrays your youth. I have found that an excess of virtue often leads to sorrow." 

Aragorn noticed that her eyes were fixed on Daeron's grim figure as he stood at the great hearth with Ingold, drinking a horn of ale. After spending time with her almost daily, he was beginning to know his great-grandmother's ways. "You have a tale to tell, and I am listening."

She leaned over in her chair and lowered her voice to a murmur. "If Arathorn had a fault, it was an insufficient understanding of human weakness. He had so little weakness himself. More than once I warned him that not everyone was capable of being so good, and that it would become him to show more mercy. He replied that it was his duty to set an example."

"Isn't that true?" 

Before resuming her tale, Saelind paused to nod at a bevy of young girls who approached and curtseyed to her. "Certainly. And what an example he set! He rose above all temptations. I always worried it would be trouble, and so it was. My rather chilly grandson erupted into flames over a toothsome beauty."

Of all things, _that_ was the last thing he had expected to hear about his father. Aragorn looked at his great-grandmother in some alarm, wondering if he was about to learn of an older half-brother.

"I mean your mother, child," Saelind said.

Aragorn choked on his wine and began coughing. She patted his back till the coughs subsided. "They are troubling, such powerful emotions. I think that one of the sources of all the trouble about your parents' marriage was that Arathorn was so surprised by his own love."

Aragorn frowned in dismay. "I didn't know there was trouble about their marriage."

"I guessed that Gilraen did not tell you."

A boy, the winner of the first race held earlier that day, approached the dais. Saelind broke off her tale to smile and extend her hand. "My lady, I have brought you a wooden carving of the falcons," the boy said. "I made it myself."

"It is lovely," she said, taking it from him gravely. "Thank you so much."

He beamed, bowed his head to Aragorn, and with a respectful, "my lord," was gone.

Saelind settled back into her deep chair. "Perhaps living in Rivendell for so long, away from us, makes the past remote to Gilraen. The truth is, there was an understanding from her childhood that she would marry another. It became formal when she reached the age of sixteen, and Dírhael pledged his daughter to the son of his sworn comrade. Four years later, he broke his promise when Arathorn asked for her."

Aragorn took refuge in a gulp of wine.

"Gilraen seemed content with the arrangement, or Dírhael would not have confirmed the promise, but the marriage was not to take place until she came of age at twenty-five, as is usual among our people. When she was twenty Arathorn returned to the Keep after a two-year absence, traveling as is the custom for the chieftain's heir. Well, when he came back, he was quite taken with Gilraen. She had grown into a woman in that time. She was very lovely."

"She still is," Aragorn said.

She glanced at him with a quirk of her mouth. "She is still quite young, you know."

"I do know. She and I and two Elves were the only inhabitants of Rivendell under one hundred years old."

She laughed again, and beckoned with a tap of her frail finger on the table, and he leaned over to catch her low voice. "Well, when Arathorn asked for her, Dírhael broke his promise to his sworn brother. He's dead now, but it caused bad feeling. There were some who thought Dírhael broke his word because he wanted his daughter to marry into the chieftain's family."

"Is this true?" 

"I think you should ask him that question. But I know that Ivorwen would never have agreed to it if it hadn't been Gilraen's own wish. Few mothers can bear to see a daughter wed against her will. That is so hard for a woman. But of course the man was bitterly disappointed. He has never married."

"And are you going to tell me the name of this man?"

"Daeron, the master at arms." She pointed with her chin at his grey figure, still deep in conversation with Ingold. 

"The man with the scarred eye?" 

"The same. And that's how he got the scar. He fought with Arathorn over the matter, and was wounded. This fight should never have happened. Many blame them both, but I blame my grandson more. His rigid sense of honor drove him to it. He should have refused the fight, which he could easily have done, without any loss of honor, as the Chieftain's son. He had won Gilraen, and had nothing to gain by defeating Daeron, who foolishly challenged him. And so Daeron was injured in this terrible way. Arador went out of his way to make sure Daeron was cared for. He even tried to help him using Elven healing, but to no avail. Understandably, Daeron is bitter."

_He sours the very air about him._ "He is not a friendly man, from the little I have seen."

"He is bitter toward Dírhael and his family, and apparently that includes you, from the tales I have heard."

"Are you warning me, then?"

"Yes and no. I do not believe he means any harm. He is as loyal to our people as any man in Thurnost, hard-working, skilled, and highly trusted in council. But he has always been a surly fellow, and his bitterness will help nothing. You need to know this."

The musicians struck up a lively tune, and young women formed into a circle and began to dance. Aragorn watched their twisting forms and quick feet. Their laughing faces and flushed cheeks paled beside the image of Elven beauty burned into his memory. His eyes told him they were pretty, even beautiful, but neither his heart nor his loins stirred. _Has my love made me a eunuch?_

He turned back to Saelind. "It would have been better if my mother had told me."

"Yes," Saelind said with a mischievous smile, "but it is not a thing a woman can easily tell a son. The tale continues. After telling Daeron he had to wait until Gilraen was twenty-five, Dírhael decided to hurry up the marriage at Arathorn's request. So, as you know, she was only twenty-one when she was married and barely past her twenty-third birthday when you were born. There are some who thought that much too young for a woman of our race. It's unusual, I grant."

"It's hard for me to appreciate that."

"Hmm, yes," she said. "It would be. Daeron and Dírhael can barely speak to this day."

"I have heard," Aragorn said carefully, "that my grandfather Dírhael is not an even-tempered man."

"He is a foul-tempered beast, my dear, and no doubt you will butt heads when you meet him at last, since you are as strong-willed as he is, or worse."

"Or better?" Aragorn cocked his head at her. "It is perhaps not a bad thing."

"Or better," she agreed. "Beleg, too, bears ill will toward Daeron. He always took Arathorn's part, and I believe was in part responsible for the fight. He is too quick to take to arms to solve a matter, and will hear no ill spoken of his sword brother."

"I've heard a lot about the love between Beleg and my father. He stayed in Rivendell himself for some years, and they journeyed together to Mirkwood, I understand."

"Yes, that's where Arathorn had been before he fell in love with Gilraen. In fact, it was because of a wound Beleg suffered that they returned when they did."

The music stopped between dances, and Saelind waited till it began again to speak. "As for me, I do not begrudge Daeron his resentment, although I am sorry for his own sake. Perhaps if it weren't for the loss of his eye, it could have been forgotten. But he revealed his own ugly temper when he said that Arathorn's death by an Orc arrow through the eye had a certain justice. That was an unmanly thing to say."

Aragorn winced, and closed his eyes. "Indeed so." He was beginning to wonder if life in the Wild might not be more comfortable than life in the Keep.

"I only hope that my grandson's death was swift and relatively painless," Saelind said. 

The dancing stopped, and a singer came forward, with a lutenist at his side. Bowing to the head table, they begged the sufferance of the lord and lady for their poor song. Saelind graciously waved her hand. "I have looked forward all day to your song. Please begin."

The young man's clear strong voice reached to the dark corners of the room as he sang of the dreams of bygone days.

_The leaves were long, the grass was green,_  
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,  
And in the glade a light was seen  
Of stars in shadow shimmering.  
Tinúviel was dancing there  
To music of a pipe unseen,  
And light of stars was in her hair,  
And in her raiment glimmering. 

A wave of longing swept Aragorn. "He sought her ever, wandering far," he murmured to himself. "Tinúviel, Tinúviel." 

_Erupting into flames at a toothsome beauty._ That _I understand._

  
~oOo~

That night he dreamed of her again. 

_She turned toward him, her hair falling over his naked chest, and entangled her soft hand in his hair. She caressed his bearded cheek and laughed. "Estel," she whispered and, smiling, bent down to kiss him._

He had wondered at the look of sadness in her eyes. But he never had a chance to ask her about it, because the next morning she was gone.

Once, climbing the rocky slopes above Rivendell, as a youth on the verge of manhood and beginning to dream of beautiful women, he had seen two eagles in their mating dance, their claws entwined as they tumbled through the air. _I want a love like that._  
  
He would settle for nothing less. If she would not have him, he would have no one. After all, Rivendell was not so very far away. No, it was not yet time to give up.


	14. The Test of Battle

Watching Aragorn and Saelind together at the harvest festival, Halbarad guessed that Aragorn was at last learning Daeron's story. He himself, on his father's orders, circled among the people, welcoming them and asking after their farms and families. 

"There is a lot of fear," he told his father the next day. "The rumors of Mordor and the Orc raid have set the people to sharpening their knives and hoes. They wonder if our guard is enough."

"So do I," said Hallor grimly. 

"They also rejoice in Aragorn's return. That, more than anything we could do or say, gives them hope."

Hallor cupped his pipe in his calloused hand. "In that, too, I agree with our people. Arathorn would be proud of his son. But still some Rangers question his youth and training, and he knows it. He has asked to be sent on patrol, and I am happy to grant it. As it is, I fear I must keep Hawk at the Point till the council meeting. You and Aragorn must both go to the Point."

They left the next morning for the Rangers' main outpost in the Angle. Loaded down with pack, bedroll and weapons, Halbarad went to Aragorn's quarters and found him reverently placing Narsil on an ornate weapons rack that had been newly mounted on the wall.

"I hate to leave it, but fear even more for harm to come to it in the Wild," he said with an uncertain frown.

"It would be no aid, but a hindrance. Let it stay here safe. I'm sure Fíriel will not dare to dust it."

Aragorn chuckled. "Yes, she remains quite afraid of me. I had no idea I was so daunting."

In the stable their saddled horses were restless, blowing noisily with excitement when their masters appeared. Once out of the Keep, they gave the horses their head, and Brelach and Vingilot sprang forward at a gallop, neck and neck down the beaten path to the north. Halbarad reined his mount in first, and, laughing with the joy of it, watched Aragorn and Brelach flow like the wind. They were as one creature. At last they turned, and Brelach danced back down the path.

"Has he always been yours?" Halbarad asked.

"Say rather that I am his," Aragorn laughed. "He chose me from a foal, five years ago, and since he grew to a stallion I have ridden no other."

"And he will have no other rider, I suppose." 

"He has his ways, tis true. Come, let's away! I chafe to fight our enemies."

They settled into a swift and steady pace. As they went, Halbarad described the Point. It, too, was Dwarvish work enlarged and altered by the Men of Númenor: Caves riddled the crest of hills that cut east and west across the Angle, and the Point, a stark abutment thrust into the northern part of the land, where few husbandmen lived, guarded the way to the Keep. There the largest cavern had been fitted to hold thirty men and a stable of twelve horses. Along the northern edge of the hills, a path wound through the rough boulders, in and out of tunnels, all the way to the farthest reach of the Angle: the Ranger station on the far shore of the river, where the Dúnedain traded goods and news with the traveling Dwarves from the Blue Mountains.

The autumn chill had settled into the bones of the country, and they slept back to back to share their warmth against the steely night. On the second day a grey rain began to fall, and they pulled their hoods low over their cold faces. The drizzle had hardened into a steady downpour when they rode into the yard behind the Point. Halbarad felt a moment of pity for the unfortunate sentry, whose broad hat was just visible over the rocky wall of the lookout.

Hawk, Malbeth, Goenor and Rodnor were within, repairing and cleaning their gear. A brisk fire threw shadows against the walls. Huan, with his companion, Carcharoth, dozed in the hearth's warmth.

"Damrod's aloft?" asked Halbarad.

"No, Rodnion," Hawk grunted.

"He's a man now, he says." Goenor's smile was broad, and he cocked his head at Rodnor, who swiftly bent his head over his chore. "This one knows better than to claim a few downy lip hairs as manhood. Damrod's on foot along the path, doing the daily check. He'll bring a few rabbits, we're hoping. Well, Aragorn, I see you've shed some of the Elven princeling. Good, rugged Ranger clothing, that."

Aragorn laughed. "Between my cousin Idhril and my grandmother, I am well outfitted."

Halbarad smiled to hear their banter. Here, at least, Aragorn was accepted—no, welcomed—as one of their own.

The days settled into the familiar vigilant tedium of patrol: long days walking the trails; watching from the lookout; at night the sound sleep of exhaustion when they slept in the safety of the cave. In the wild, sleep was a chance thing, grabbed in between watches and rain. They patrolled north to the Road and east to the Loudwater's sharp swing toward the mountains, where a wide ford provided the only way across the river between Rivendell and Tharbad. To the west, they shared the territory with Rangers stationed on the Hoarwell. Every day, whatever the weather, Aragorn insisted on sword practice, but otherwise they had little use for their weapons beyond the hunt for food. The growing danger had not come to the Angle itself. _Yet_ , Halbarad told himself, as he sharpened his arrow points.

At last the rains cleared, the sky a brisk blue with a chill wind. For two days Halbarad and Aragorn had been scouting the rolling country near the Loudwater. Scanning the trees to the north for a possible sight of game, Halbarad felt a sharp tug on his arm, and turned to find Aragorn staring toward the steep incline down to the river, not a mile away.

A man struggled up the slope—a wounded man, dried blood encrusting his face, his arm dangling loose, his gait staggering with evident pain.

Halbarad cried, "May the Valar save us, it is Beleg," and leaped through the trees.

By the time he reached the wounded man, Beleg had collapsed on the ground with a scream of pain. Crouching at his side, Halbarad was relieved to see a glimmer of recognition in the man's anguished eyes. "Orcs." he panted, his voice harsh with pain. "Across the river." Then his eyes flew open, focused beyond Halbarad's shoulder. "Arathorn? Arathorn? Am I dreaming? Am I dead?" He fainted.

Aragorn stooped at Halbarad's side and laid his hands on the man's face. "Fever. Help me to get him to shelter while he's out."

They carried him to a brake of small evergreens and laid him on a heap of fallen leaves. Quickly Aragorn stripped his tunic from his arm and shoulders. "Water, hot water. Then you had better go summon the others."

Halbarad wasted no time talking. By the time he had fetched water and got it to a boil, Aragorn, too, was covered in blood, his face grim. Halbarad caught his breath in distress. "Will he live?" 

"The wounds themselves are not grave. But exhaustion has aggravated the injuries. See? His clothes are damp. He swam the river, I guess, though how he did that with a broken arm, I wonder. A log, I suppose."

Beleg groaned and opened his eyes. "Arathorn. I am dreaming."

"I am his son," Aragorn said gently. "Tell us what happened."

"His son," Beleg said. "Yes, his son." He lifted his one good hand and let it fall on Aragorn's wrist. "Halbarad. Tell Hallor—Orcs. A troop of nine or ten. Across the river, by the Eye. They ambushed us. Talthar and Dúrphor are dead. Horses too."

"I am on my way." Halbarad grabbed his weapons and set off at a run.

He headed straight for the path along the hills toward the Point. For half a day he strode at a great pace; fear kept his feet moving long after his body would have given out. At last he found Damrod on horse; he mounted behind him for a swift gallop to the Point, where Hawk dispatched all men and horses. From the lookout Rodnion shot fire arrows—three for Orcs, a long pause, followed by two for east—to signal the next camp of the danger. "Truly, you are a man now," said Goenor, and there was no humor in his voice, "defending the Angle against Orcs."

"Six of us on horse can take nine or ten Orcs easily," said Hawk. "Let's go."

When they reached the dell where Aragorn waited at Beleg's side, the injured man was deep in sleep, bandaged and covered with Aragorn's cloak.

"He will be all right," Aragorn said. "He needs sleep, and food, when he wakes. Who will stay with him while we ride?"

"For that purpose I brought Rodnor," said Hawk. 

Quickly Aragorn instructed the boy in the care of the wounded man. 

"What other news?" Halbarad asked. "Did he tell you more?"

"No ordinary Orcs," Aragorn said, as he girded on his sword. He flung his pack across Brelach's back and leaped into the saddle. "They are Uruks from Mordor, and headed north and west. They will not stop for the sun."

They set out at great speed, following a horse trail hidden in the woods that led to the ford across Loudwater, then south to pick up Beleg's trail. All too soon they came upon the dead Rangers and horses, hacked, mutilated and butchered as for food. 

Halbarad's stomach heaved, and he turned away, covering his eyes. Aragorn laid his hand on his shoulder. "They will be avenged." 

"But we must leave them till that time," ordered Hawk.

"What, for the beasts? For wolves to prey upon?" cried Malbeth.

"Unless you wish more dead to join them, yes," said Hawk harshly. "The Uruks are hours ahead of us."

The rank ruin left by the monsters' brutal feet, trampling through the heather of the open downs to the east of the river, made a trail easy to follow, and on into the night the Dúnedain rode. They halted when the darkness made travel dangerous for the horses, and resumed the journey at first light. 

As he rode, Vingilot moving like thunder beneath him, Halbarad's horror turned to fury and hate. The sharp weight of his sword at his side called out for the black blood of Orcs. In his mind he counted his arrows, and chose the best for his first shots.

Toward mid-day Hawk spotted the enemy and cried a warning. The horsemen regrouped, and swept down with the fury of a blinding storm as the Orcs broke and scattered with harsh cries, "Tarks! Curse them!" The first assault cut the Orcs' numbers in half. The remaining scouts turned to face their enemy, their heavy weapons at the ready, their cries of hate tearing the autumn air.

Their stench filled Halbarad's nostrils, their yellow eyes lit with the lust to kill. He saw Aragorn ahead of him, wheeling Brelach to chase down two Uruks fleeing into the trees. Morchamion flashed, and a powerful swipe sheered off the monster's head. Halbarad took aim to shoot his best arrow into the other Orc, when suddenly, with a wild cry resounding with fear, Aragorn threw out his arms and lurched in the saddle. Brelach reared, screaming, and in a tumble of helmet, shield and sword, Aragorn fell to the ground.

Halbarad's arrow went astray; he cursed, shouting, "To me! To me!" desperately hoping the others would hear. As Halbarad urged Vingilot toward the fallen man, the leering Uruk swing a spiked club toward Aragorn, who lay motionless, his sword fallen from his hand. 

Neighing in fear and fury, Brelach reared and lashed out at the Orc with his hooves. The roaring monster swung his club at the horse, striking his shoulder. Brelach screamed again and lashed out even more fiercely, but the Orc's second swing smashed his leg. Yet again Brelach reared, slashing at the Orc with his good leg; the other a red mangle of bone and muscle. His blood spattered his fallen master as Halbarad lunged and took off the Orc's hand. Seemingly out of nowhere, Hawk leaped to his side, his bright blade flashing. The monster collapsed to the ground, his head cloven in two, the acrid smell of his black blood fouling the air.

His heart in his mouth, Halbarad dropped to Aragorn's side. "Aragorn, Aragorn, speak." 

"He's breathing, but not conscious," Hawk said. "Find out where he is hit. I'll get Goenor."

Seeing no blood, Halbarad began to unlace Aragorn's leather tunic to search his body for wounds. Aragorn's eyes fluttered open. "Stop, I am not hurt, but from the fall," but he caught his breath with evident pain. "See to my horse."

"You were hit, I saw it."

"No," Aragorn hissed. "Brelach, now." For all his pain, his grey eyes commanded.

The horse's front left leg dangled, shattered where the club had hit. Brelach was quiet, turning inward to his pain, his eyes dull. When Halbarad approached him, hand stretched out to reassure, the horse bared his teeth with a wild gleam of his eye.

"He will not let me near him. I'm afraid his leg is ruined."

Aragorn groaned.

"I'm sorry." Halbarad knew what would have to be done. He knelt again at Aragorn's side. "Now let me look at you."

"I am all right." Wincing, Aragorn heaved himself up, and Halbarad braced his shoulder. He panted with pain. "I may have broken a rib or two. Help me up." Limping, he went to the horse, his left side stiff and drooping. He reached his arm over Brelach's fine neck, and murmured unheard words.

Hawk returned with Goenor then. Aragorn looked at him, his eyes as dull as the horse's. "The men?"

"Some wounds, nothing bad. You're the worst hurt, I fear. The Orcs are every one of them dead. They will carry no tales to their masters."

"I am not wounded." Aragorn turned back to the horse. "Oh, my friend," Halbarad heard him say, as he stroked the horse's soft muzzle. "What have I done to you?"

"Aragorn," Hawk said sharply. "You must lie down. Do not risk yourself this way."

Aragorn leaned his head against Brelach's proud neck. 

"Aragorn," Hawk said again. "Must I order you to obey me?"

He turned to look at Hawk and Halbarad. "Put him down. I can't wield the axe with sufficient force, not with this arm," and he indicated his left shoulder. "Who is best for this task? I will have it quick."

Hawk met his eyes and held his glance for a long moment. "All right. Then you must see to yourself."

Aragorn nodded. Dashing the sweat and blood from his eyes, Hawk called to Goenor. "The horse," he said as the man approached. "You can see."

Goenor was bleeding from a cut on his cheek; black Orc blood smeared his chest. "I will fetch the axe."

"Come," Halbarad said. "The healer must look at your wounds." 

With one last caress of the horse's soft muzzle, Aragorn turned away and allowed Halbarad to bear some of his weight. "You saved my life, both of you. I am in your debt."

Hawk nodded. "It is what we are for." 

Struggling to move slowly, Halbarad half-led, half-carried his friend to the small fire where Malbeth was seeing to a slash in Damrod's shoulder. As he helped Aragorn to lie down, Halbarad heard the sound of the axe blow that ended Brelach's life. Aragorn moaned, grief and pain mingled on his face. __

Halbarad stripped Aragorn's tunic and softly probed his badly bruised side. "What happened? Why did you fall? Did the horse throw you? I thought for certain you were hit."

Aragorn shook his head. "No, it was my fault. I lost my balance and threw all my weight on the reins. It was as if some dark creature seized me. I've never felt such a thing before."

"I don't understand."

"Nor do I." His voice was clipped and short through gritted teeth. "Bind my side, and get me a draught for pain."

As he worked Halbarad saw a wild light of panic in Aragorn's eyes, staring into the dark under the trees. "What is it? What do you fear?"

Aragorn grabbed his hand. "A black thing, with wings."

Dismayed, Halbarad wondered at this uncharacteristic flight of panic. "It's nothing, they are all dead. Sleep now."

He left Aragorn to help Damrod and Malbeth drag the bodies of the Orcs to a nearby ravine. He shuddered to touch their carcasses, even more hideous in death. Goenor and Hawk hauled stones to cover Brelach where he lay, in pain no more.

"What happened to Aragorn?" asked Damrod as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Did the horse stumble?"

"He says no, he says it was his fault. I don't think he knows what happened."

Damrod shook his head. "Has he never fought Orcs before?"

Halbarad turned on him sharply. "He knows more of them than you or I."

"It doesn't look like it." 

Malbeth shuffled his feet uneasily, but said nothing. And Halbarad saw his own doubt mirrored in their eyes, full of misgiving because their young chieftain had panicked in the test of battle.


	15. Fever Dreams

__Darkness_ _hit_ _him_ _like_ _a_ _bolt_ _from_ _the_ _sky_. _Wings_ _of_ _terror_ _beat_ _about_ _his_ _head_. _Cold_ _fingers_ _seized_ _his_ _throat_. _Shouting_ , _he_ _struck_ _out_ _blindly_. _Morchamion_ _fell_ _from_ _his_ _grasp_. _As_ _he_ _pulled_ _wildly_ _at_ _the_ _reins_ , _Brelach_ _reared_ _with_ _the_ _shock_ _of_ _his_ _master's_ _weight_ _coming_ _down_ _on_ _the_ _bit_ , _throwing_ _Aragorn_ _out_ _of_ _the_ _saddle_. _As_ _he_ _hit_ _the_ _ground_ , _panic_ _wrapped_ _his_ _body_ _like_ _a_ _black_ _cloak_ , _blinding_ _his_ _sight_ _and_ _tangling_ _his_ _arms_ _and_ _legs_. _He_ _heard_ _Brelach_ _screaming_. _He_ _managed_ _to_ _roll_ _over_ , _but_ _he_ _could_ _not_ _rise_. _The_ _Orc_ _loomed_ _over_ _him_ , _a_ _gleaming_ _dagger_ _in_ _one_ _hand_ , _a_ _spiked_ _club_ _in_ _the_ _other_. _Aragorn_ _tried_ _to_ _reach_ _for_ _the_ _knife_ _in_ _his_ _boot_ , _but_ _it_ _was_ _as_ _if_ _his_ _body_ _was_ _in_ _chains_. _He_ _could_ _not_ _even_ _lift_ _his_ _arm_ _to_ _shield_ _his_ _head_. _

__What_ _happened_? _Why_ _did_ _I_ _fall_?_

__He_ _whispered_ _a_ _last_ _few_ _words_ _into_ _Brelach's_ _soft_ _ears_._ __My_ _friend_ , _never_ _will_ _I_ _forget_ _your_ _companionship_ _and_ _your_ _courage_. _You_ _died_ _to_ _save_ _my_ _life_. _

His own cries of grief, and the pain of thrashing against the blankets, woke him. Panting, he lay in the soft bed, staring at the beamed ceiling of his room in Thurnost. __It_ _is_ _long_ _over_ , _except_ _in_ _my_ _dreams_._

The door flew open, and Fíriel hurried within, her thin face screwed up with worry. Crouching at his side, she laid a cool cloth on his forehead. "I will fetch the healer."

"No, it was just a bad dream."

"You are hot. She must know."

He did not have the strength to argue. He closed his eyes, sank into the coolness of the compress, and drifted into a semi-slumber. The touch of Idhril's gentle hands brought him back. "I must get up," he murmured.

She laughed softly. "Just try. Even if you have the strength, I will call my father's guard to put you back in bed. Why are healers always the worst patients? Drink this."

He recognized the inexorable glint in her eyes—so like Elrond's determined gaze when he had administered a draught to the obstinate young Estel. __All_ _healers_ _are_ _indeed_ _alike_._ Meekly, he drank the brew. All the honey in Idhril's cupboard could not have masked that bitterness.

__Brelach_ , _screaming_ , _lashing_ _with_ _his_ _hooves_ _to_ _shield_ _his_ _fallen_ _master_ … _the_ _face_ _of_ _a_ _dying_ _man_ , _cruelly_ _burned_ , _asking_ _for_ _his_ _dead_ _wife_ …._

_… _The_ _bloody_ _sun_ _sank_ _behind_ _the_ _mountains_ _in_ _the_ _western_ _sky_. _King_ _Isildur's_ _heart_ _was_ _high_ : _Soon_ _the_ _Dúnedain_ _would_ _reach_ _Rivendell_ , _where_ _dwelt_ _his_ _wife_ _and_ _youngest_ _son_. _And_ _he_ _could_ _at_ _last_ _hand_ _over_ _to_ _Elrond_ _the_ _Thing_ _that_ _cast_ _a_ _shadow_ _on_ _his_ _heart_._

__Harsh_ _cries_ _roused_ _his_ _alarm_. _Orcs_! _Urgent_ _commands_ _dispatched_ _the_ _soldiers_ _into_ _a_ _defensive_ _formation_. _At_ _last_ _they_ _drove_ _the_ _creatures_ _away_._

__But_ _as_ _they_ _marched_ _into_ _the_ _valley_ _below_ _he_ _heard_ , _rather_ _than_ _saw_ , _more_ _Orcs_ _coming_. _Fear_ _seized_ _him_. _He_ _put_ _the_ _shards_ _of_ _Narsil_ _in_ _the_ _hands_ _of_ _his_ _esquire_ _and_ _bade_ _him_ _save_ _the_ _sword_ _of_ _Elendil_ _at_ _any_ _cost_._

__The_ _Orcs_ _closed_ _in_. _Four_ , _five_ , _six_ _of_ _the_ _monsters_ _could_ _take_ _down_ _a_ _man_. _And_ _the_ _Dúnedain_ _of_ _Arnor_ _died_. _At_ _last_ _Isildur_ _could_ _no_ _longer_ _delay_ : _bearing_ _his_ _burden_ _he_ , _too_ , _must_ _depart_ , _abandoning_ _his_ _son_ _and_ _heir_ , _Elendur_ , _the_ _fairest_ , _the_ _best_ _of_ _all_ _the_ _sons_ _of_ _Númenor_ , _to_ _a_ _terrible_ _death_._

The nightmares came and went with the fever, seizing Aragorn with such power that once he had to be shaken into consciousness, despite the tenderness of the bruised ribs. Sometimes Fíriel would be there, sometimes Idhril or Ivorwen. Each time they would bathe his face and body and give him yet another draught. Once Ivorwen took hold of his hands and laid her fingers on the pulse on each wrist, her soft eyes warm with worry. "These are no ordinary dreams. I can feel it. Rest now. I will sit here and watch."

__As_ _the_ _light_ _of_ _day_ _dwindled_ , _the_ _hillmen_ _streamed_ _over_ _the_ _hill_ , _their_ _fierce_ _language_ _like_ _a_ _storm_ _of_ _hail_ _lashing_ _at_ _the_ _Dúnedain_ _defenders_. _Waving_ _his_ _sword_ _in_ _defiance_ , _the_ _Prince_ _of_ _Cardolan_ _rallied_ _his_ _men_ : " _Men_ _of_ _the_ _West_! _Fight_ _now_ _for_ _Arnor_!" _The_ _archers_ _let_ _fly_ , _and_ _many_ _of_ _the_ _enemy_ _fell_. _But_ _behind_ _the_ _swarming_ _hillmen_ _came_ _a_ _rank_ _of_ _Orcs_ , _their_ _eyes_ _a_ _ghastly_ _yellow_ _in_ _the_ _growing_ _dark_ , _and_ _Trolls_ , _roaring_ _and_ _swinging_ _their_ _huge_ _clubs_. _Then_ _even_ _they_ _fell_ _silent_ _as_ _the_ _black_ _horse_ _climbed_ _over_ _the_ _lip_ _of_ _the_ _hill_ _and_ _the_ _crowned_ _ghostly_ _shape_ _of_ _the_ _King_ _of_ _Angmar_ _struck_ _fear_ _into_ _even_ _his_ _own_ _troops_._  
  
__The_ _tower_ _of_ _Elendil_ _burned_ _that_ _day_ , _and_ _the_ _last_ _prince_ _of_ _Cardolan_ _fell_ _at_ _its_ _final_ _defense_._

~oOo~

One morning he woke to find a golden stream of sunshine pouring through the window, and Halbarad sprawled in a chair at his bedside, intent upon the fletching of an arrow.

"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Better. How long have I been here?"

"Here? Three days. But it took us six days to get you to the Keep, and all that time you were half-conscious. Idhril's been at her wit's end. She feared some of those scratches must have been poisoned."

"Poisoned? But no weapon touched me."

Halbarad raised his eyebrows. "Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be, in the circumstances."

"As you say. In any case, she hardly knew how else to explain the fever."

"It's been one long nightmare." Aragorn moved his arms and legs, and found them whole. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his left side. "But the worst seems to have passed."

"Last night you started to sleep normally—that's what Idhril said—and so I was allowed to sit with you this morning. She'll be happy to hear you are awake." He unfolded his long body and stood up.

"Wait, before you go, tell me what happened."

"Tell you?" said Halbarad, his eyes wary. "You tell me."

"I don't know. It was almost as if I had a spell on me."

"I wouldn't say that to the others, if I were you."

"Then what should I say?"

"To me, it looked like you were hit. Perhaps you thought so, too, at the time. Who knows?"

"I know. Something hit me, but not a weapon."

Halbarad quirked a chagrined smile. "Then something hit the horse."

"I saw no wound on him but for the club. Did you?"

Halbarad turned his eyes away. "No."

"Did you search the bodies of the Orcs?"

"As we always do, and with special care since they were Uruks. Hawk said their kind had not been seen in Eriador since the Battle of the Five Armies. No coincidence, that, with Sauron's rise in Mordor."

"Did any carry the insignia of the Eye?"

Halbarad shook his head. "Some bore an R rune in a triangle. None of us knew it. Beleg could remember little from his encounter, when Talthar and Dúrphor were killed. My father thought we should have taken an Orc alive for questioning."  
  
"That never works with those creatures." Aragorn searched his memory, but could recall no such insignia in life or tale. "No strange weapons? No strange marks on the bodies of our comrades?"

"Crude swords, spiked clubs, maces, poisoned arrows—nothing beyond the usual. As for the bodies, what was left of them, nothing we thought more than cruel savagery." Halbarad took at step toward the door. "I'd better go and let Idhril know you're awake. There's others who want to see you, too. Saelind asks after you almost hourly, and Beleg will knock down the door pretty soon if we don't let him in."

"He's recovered well, then."

"All mended, except for the arm. Idhril said you tended it very well, and she had only to change the dressing. She thinks quite highly of you."

__Perhaps_ _my_ _people_ _will_ _prefer_ _me_ _as_ _a_ _healer_ , _not_ _a_ _warrior__ , Aragorn thought bitterly. __How_ _can_ _I_ _explain_ _what_ _happened_ _to_ _me_ _when_ _I_ _don't_ _know_ _myself_?_

At the door Halbarad hesitated. "Look, I believe that's how it seemed to you. But what I think doesn't matter much. You fell, but you had no wound and you say it was not the horse."  
  
Aragorn gritted his teeth. "It was not the horse. Leave it."  
  
Halbarad shrugged and passed through the door.  
  
~oOo~

Later that afternoon, as he was beginning to feel restless, Hallor came to visit him. "To have you return, only to lose you to injury or illness—that would have been a severe blow."  
  
Moving carefully to spare his tender ribs, Aragorn sat up against his pillow. "If it were not for Halbarad and Hawk, I would be dead. I told them so."  
  
Hallor tamped his weed down into his pipe with one broad finger. "We have all saved each other's lives many times. It's the ones we don't save that I can't forget."  
  
"Brelach would not have died, but for me. He protected me and died for it."  
  
"What happened?" Hallor asked. His tone sounded carefully neutral. "I did not see, but I would like to know."  
  
"I can only repeat what I told Halbarad," Aragorn said. "I don't know what happened. It was as if I had been seized by some wraith. It has never happened before."  
  
Hallor stared at the floor, pulling at his beard. Finally he said, "There is talk."  
  
"I saw it in their eyes. They think I am a coward," Aragorn said bitterly.  
  
Hallor pursed his lips. "No one has used that word, and I must ask you to refrain from using it as well."  
  
"They're thinking it," Aragorn said, narrowing his eyes.   
  
"Perhaps so. But we can address only spoken words."  
  
"What do they say, then?"  
  
"I think you already know, but I will tell you again. At first they thought you must have been hit by an arrow or a dart, from the shout and the fall. But without any wound, it appears that you panicked. Your nerve failed. That is no great matter. Even the most seasoned warrior can have such moments, and men see also that you probably saved Beleg's life with your care of his injuries, and that all else you did was truly worthy. It's just very unfortunate that this happened now, when you are subject to so much scrutiny. For you are, you know."  
  
"I'm aware of that," Aragorn snapped.   
  
Hallor sighed. "Aragorn, I will try to give you some advice, given that I am, as Saelind has so rightly instructed me, standing in for your father and grandfather. What's more important than the incident itself is how you handle men's judgment of you. For, as I just said, and I will say it again, even the most seasoned warrior can have a moment of fear. That is a reaction in a moment of high tension, and it takes experience to master it. But here, you are not in the heat of battle. And how you deal with these criticisms will tell the people much about the kind of man you are."  
  
Aragorn wanted to cry out that he would rip out the throat of any man who so much as hinted that he was a coward. He turned his head away in shame that such a ferocious impulse would seize him. He opened his mouth, then shut it, then opened it again. "I know that, but I cannot endure being branded as a coward."  
  
"I'm sure you'll prove time and again that you are not," Hallor said. "Meanwhile, you'll have to put up with some doubts. Do so with dignity."   
  


~oOo~

Alone once again, Aragorn looked up at the sword of Elendil displayed on his wall. __It_ _is_ _all_ _a_ _mistake_. _No_ _heir_ _of_ _Isildur_ _am_ _I_. _I_ _am_ _Estel_ _of_ _Rivendell_ , _not_ _Aragorn_ _of_ _Thurnost_. _ And then his fury turned against himself. __Coward_ _in_ _battle_ , _coward_ _in_ _the_ _Keep_. _ Drowsy with Idhril's draught, he drifted back to sleep. This time, he dreamed of climbing a rocky mountain slope, and every time he reached the top, his feet would slip, and down he would slide to the uttermost bottom.

The long and slow recovery was hard to bear. He chafed at Idhril's restrictions, and longed for the feel of Morchamion in his hand and the momentum and power of a strong sweep of the blade. He had lost weight and strength from the fever, but between Ivorwen's hearty soups and breads, and moving as much as Idhril would allow, he gained them back rapidly. Soon he was walking as much as the soreness and pain in his side would allow.  
  


He spent many hours with Beleg, hearing tales of his father. Still recuperating himself, he had taken to visiting Aragorn each day. "We were as brothers, Arathorn and I, the closest of brothers," he said the first time. "We grew up together and traveled together. Only the death of my dear wife grieves me more than the loss of Arathorn. How much like him you are!"

"So many have said. Indeed, you thought I was he when first you saw me."

"I don't remember that. I must have been ill indeed to think so, for though you are like, you are no twin."

Beleg's height and Elven grace spoke of high Númenorean blood. "My mother's ancestors were the last Dúnedain nobles to flee from Rhudaur, when Angmar's servant usurped power there."

"And did they too shave their beards?" Aragorn asked, curious about Beleg's smooth cheeks. He had seen no other Ranger with this custom.

Beleg laughed, his elegant arched brows rising in merriment. "It's a challenge to keep my face smooth in the wild, I grant. But it's a habit I developed from youth, living with the Elves. You know I went to Rivendell with Arathorn, don't you?"  
  
"I had heard something about it," Aragorn said. "I have been told that I must talk to you to hear about my father."

"He did not adopt my custom of shaving, mainly due to practicality. But I always felt so at one with the Elves. I think I was born the reincarnation of an Elven fëa."  
  
"You are joking, of course."  
  
"Only in part. I know Arathorn thought I was skirting outright blasphemy to say so, as do you, I guess, from your expression. Perhaps it's better to say I was born an Elven fëa in a mortal body. A houseless Elf found a new home at last, that's me!" He thumped himself on the chest.  
  
"I don't think it's better."  
  
"Then it is the Elven blood in the Dúnedain."

"Our Elven blood does not change our mortal fëa," Aragorn said firmly. "Our fates are different."

"So the Wise say. Who knows? But I am descended from the line of the Chieftains, through Aravir's second son—the brother of Aragorn the first, may I remind you. It is one of the reasons Arathorn named you as he did."

"Indeed?" Aragorn found this, too, rather disturbing.

"Yes, and I was to be a second father to you, and but for Elrond's actions, I would have. But now I am willing to forgive him everything. I would like to visit, but Hallor says Gilraen's family is going, and that I must wait. How I long to see the Valley again! To hear the music in the Hall of Fire, and stroll in Elrond's garden!"

He talked also of the long visit to Thranduil's kingdom that he and Arathorn had made together in the years just before Arador's death. "Our last journey as unmarried men," he laughed. "Battling Orcs and giant spiders, and between hunts, dancing merrily in the Elf-king's halls. But scouting south to Dol Guldur ended that." His face closed, drawn and pinched, and he would say no more.

Together they looked at old log books and annals of the Rangers' years in Thurnost. The annals of Arnor and of Arthedain lay in Elrond's library, but the books of the Chieftains were kept in the Chieftain's hall, called the map room by the Rangers: it stretched along the front of the Great Hall, a step or two from Aragorn's quarters. There stood a table long enough to seat two dozen men. Chairs and heavy chests lined the walls, where weapons and maps hung. Shelves held books and scrolls, and a crackling fire in the large hearth kept them warm as they poured over the history of the Chieftains. Beleg showed him entries written in his father's strong script—few, for Arathorn had been chieftain for only three years. Aragorn had, unknowing, held the title of Heir of Isildur for longer than his father or even his grandfather.

But the more ancient books held his interest longest, those with tales of the battles and struggles of the final fall of the Northern kingdom, when Angmar and Rhudaur destroyed at last the strength of Cardolan and Arthedain, and Arvedui Last-King fled. 

__The_ _Witch_ - _King_ _of_ _Angmar_ _was_ _Sauron's_ _most_ _fearsome_ _servant_ , _the_ _Lord_ _of_ _the_ _Ringwraiths_ _himself_ , _yet_ _many_ _others_ , _albeit_ _of_ _lesser_ _power_ , _served_ _him_ _too_. _Little_ _is_ _known_ _of_ _some_ , _for_ _they_ _fled_ _when_ _the_ _power_ _of_ _Gondor_ , _joined_ _with_ _the_ _Men_ _and_ _Elves_ _of_ _the_ _North_ , _crushed_ _Angmar_ _at_ _last_._

__After_ _the_ _last_ _prince_ _of_ _the_ _Dúnedain_ _fled_ , _the_ _lord_ _of_ _Rhudaur_ _in_ _its_ _later_ _years_ _was_ _a_ _king_ _of_ _the_ _hill_ _folk_ , _but_ _the_ _wise_ _know_ _that_ _the_ _real_ _command_ _in_ _that_ _fell_ _land_ _was_ _held_ _by_ _a_ _sorcerer_ _trained_ _in_ _Sauron's_ _evil_ _arts_. _He_ _was_ _no_ _wraith_ , _but_ _his_ _power_ _was_ _second_ _only_ _to_ _that_ _of_ _the_ _Witch_ - _King_. _It_ _may_ _be_ _that_ _he_ _bore_ _one_ _of_ _the_ _lesser_ _rings_ , _or_ _had_ _another_ _source_ _of_ _power_ _that_ _is_ _yet_ _unknown_. _None_ _knew_ _his_ _name_ , _and_ _perhaps_ _he_ _had_ _forgotten_ _it_ _himself_ , _but_ _some_ _tell_ _that_ _he_ _was_ _a_ _Black_ _Númenorean_ _whose_ _life_ _had_ _been_ _prolonged_ _by_ _unnatural_ _and_ _evil_ _means_._

__Dark_ - _haired_ _and_ _grey_ - _eyed_ , _noble_ _of_ _bearing_ , _he_ _insinuated_ _himself_ _into_ _the_ _counsels_ _of_ _the_ _first_ _kings_ _of_ _Rhudaur_ _and_ _so_ _corrupted_ _them_. _Every_ _year_ , _some_ _said_ , _on_ _the_ _darkest_ _day_ _of_ _the_ _winter_ , _he_ _would_ _drink_ _the_ _blood_ _of_ _a_ _newborn_ _babe_ _to_ _renew_ _the_ _life_ _within_ _him_. _In_ _this_ _fashion_ _he_ _lived_ _many_ _hundreds_ _of_ _years_._

That night, Aragorn's dreams echoed with the screams of dying children.


	16. The Captains' Council

Halbarad knew that Aragorn was no liar, but the other options were grim. Either he had indeed been attacked by a sorcerer's spell, a terrifying idea, or he had imagined it, which placed his sanity, or at least his common sense, in question. 

"What can I say, father? He insists the horse was not at fault."

Hallor inhaled a deep waft of smoke and exhaled slowly. "Say as little as possible. Only time will solve this problem."

"And if it was sorcery?"

"If it was, we can do less than nothing." His eyes screwed up with worry. "We must fortify the patrols. After the captains' council, we must send men to the mountains and to Tharbad for a thorough search."

Even more than the sour gossip, the sorrow in the Keep darkened Halbarad's mood. Everywhere he turned, he saw closed faces or tears for the two dead men. At least they had not been husbands and fathers; as with so many who endured the perils of a Ranger's life, they had chosen to remain unmarried. The bitterest loss was to the Rangers themselves, for Talthir and Dúrphor had put in the years of scouting throughout Eriador to qualify them for independent leadership in the Wild. They had been among the best warriors—and the Orcs had butchered them for meat.

Amid the tears, the whispering about Aragorn did not stop. More than once, when Halbarad entered the Commons or the stables or some other place where the people worked, the fervent conversations would suddenly cease. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, they were seeking a way to blame the deaths on Aragorn and, by extension, Elrond. 

Even Saelind seemed depressed. "I believe him," she snapped when Halbarad asked her. "There is little comfort in it. Perhaps he should go back to Rivendell where he will be safe."

"That's the last thing he'll do. He would see it as running away."

Saelind nodded her old head in distress. Once he was well enough to leave his bed, she insisted on visits from Aragorn every day. Halbarad often joined them, keeping a sharp eye on his cousin's manifestly restless discontent. 

Each day Aragorn paced about the room. "I crave some action. I can't abide doing nothing."

"You are healing," Saelind said. "Do not risk your life in foolish bravado."

Aragorn snorted, but his eyes gleamed with a hint of amusement. To Halbarad's relief, Saelind's grandmotherly commands seemed to ease his silent brooding and shortness of temper. The Rangers, a taciturn group, were not soft in their speech, but Aragorn's combative mood added to the already stiff tension pervading the Keep. The bolder men continued to press him, asking questions and probing for his strengths and weaknesses. Almost always he kept hold of his courtesy— _ _a_ _son_ _of_ _Elrond_ _indeed__ , thought Halbarad, remembering the tales of the legendary welcome of Rivendell. __Welcome_ _we_ _had_ _not_ _for_ _eighteen_ _years_ , _and_ _seemingly_ _those_ _eighteen_ _wipe_ _out_ _the_ _centuries_ _before_ _them_. _How_ _short_ _are_ _men's_ _memories_!_

Ingold asked Aragorn for a detailed history of his battle experiences and journeys in the Wild. The tale was impressive for one of his youth, and Ingold said so. Then he added, "The fact remains that you have fought only in comradeship with Elves. I wonder if that was part of the difficulty in the sortie."

Aragorn's eyes flashed, and for a moment Halbarad feared he would lose his temper. But he only said in a tight voice, "The Dúnedain warriors have much to teach me," and strode away. He held his head high, but the stiffness in his shoulders belied his distress.

Ingold shook his head. "A little less touchy pride would become him." 

Halbarad threw wide his arms in exasperation. "What do you expect? He knows what you're thinking."

"It's our right and duty to question him, if he's to be our chieftain."

"He __is__ the chieftain, Ingold. He was born so."

"As chieftain he will have to earn our allegiance just like any other man. We are Rangers, not courtiers in the hall of the old Kings. You appear to have given your trust much too easily, to my mind."

A vivid memory of Aragorn by the Meeting Stone, his keen eyes shining and Narsil in his hand, filled Halbarad's mind. "I am the king's man."

Ingold raised his eyebrows. "A king's man is no king's man without a king."

Ingold had a point, Halbarad admitted, but only to himself. Aragorn had some work to do before his bearing was in consonance with his heritage. Surely there was little surprise in that—after all, he had just learned of it. __What_ _can_ _it_ _be_ _like_ _to_ _find_ _out_ _that_ _your_ _name_ _is_ _not_ _your_ _name_ , _that_ _now_ _you_ _are_ _to_ _be_ _called_ _by_ _something_ _else_? _Why_ _will_ _he_ _not_ _talk_ _more_ _about_ _it_? _

Others in the Keep were downright provocative. One evening, Halbarad and Aragorn sat together before the fire in the Commons, as they often did. Halbarad was fletching arrows and Aragorn, who had begun working in the stables at light tasks while his injury continued to heal, was mending tack. With an oath he cast a piece of bridle on the floor. "Only a wizard could fix this." 

Daeron, the master at arms, overheard him and said, "No doubt you're used to magical solutions to problems, but here we're only mortals. Or perhaps the tack is ensorcelled? No doubt that explains your clumsiness."

Halbarad could see the muscles in his cousin's jaw working hard, even under his trimmed beard. But Aragorn said nothing. Daeron smirked and walked away. 

Halbarad scowled after him, then turned back to Aragorn, still visibly seething. "Pay him no mind. You know where that comes from."

Aragorn just shook his head, a glowering frown darkening his face.

Halbarad blew through his mouth in exasperation. "Perhaps I ought to hit you. It might help."

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "And how is that?"

"You need a fight. Maybe then you would relax a bit."

Aragorn gave a short laugh. "I'd rather fight Orcs than you. I will apply to Hallor to go to the Point. My injury is healed enough for that. This inaction is driving me mad."

__Or_ _the_ _foul_ _mood_ _in_ _the_ _Keep_ _rather__. But Halbarad did not speak his thought aloud.

They were both at the Ranger post at the Point when Gilraen's father and brother returned to the Angle for the December convening of the captains' council. Halbarad and Aragorn were giving Rodnion and Rodnor one of their daily lessons in swordplay, demonstrating lunges and blocks, when a shadow fell on the ground between them. Halbarad looked up to see Dírhael and his son Iorlas. With a jolt of recognition Halbarad realized that Arathorn was not the only member of his family that Aragorn resembled: he had his grandfather's unruly dark hair and glinting eyes. The years had made Dírhael rather stern and forbidding in appearance, and grey flecked his shaggy hair, but Halbarad thought Aragorn might match him in gloom if he kept up his surly mood. All the same, Halbarad liked Dírhael for his serious, straightforward intensity. A man always knew where he stood with him.

"Welcome, Dírhael, Iorlas!" Halbarad turned to Aragorn, whose face lit up in one of his striking smiles. "Your grandfather and uncle, my friend."

Dírhael stared at his grandson with steady eyes. "I heard you had returned. They said so at the river crossing."

Iorlas strode past his father and embraced his sister's son. "Well met! We were told also that Gilraen remains in Rivendell, and that she is well."

Aragorn smiled and returned the embrace. "You resemble her so much. I would have known you anywhere." He looked over his uncle's shoulder at his grandfather, and moved forward to offer his hand. "I am very pleased to meet you at last, sir."

Dírhael closed his arms around Aragorn in a fierce hug. "At last! Tell me about my daughter."

~oOo~

They traveled together to the Keep for the captains' council, keeping to a swift pace. Dírhael's restlessness matched his grandson's, and Halbarad assumed he had heard the rumors and suspicions. But he said nothing until, only a few hours after reaching the Keep, Dírhael let himself into their house.

__He_ _can_ _hardly_ _have_ _seen_ _his_ _son's_ _new_ _child__ , Halbarad thought. __Yet_ _here_ _he_ _is_ , _as_ _ever_ _pressing_ _forward_._

"Hallor, Halbarad," he acknowledged them with a sharp nod. "What is this talk?"

Aragorn, his face closed and watchful, stood silent behind him.

"Have a seat." Hallor stretched out his legs, lit his pipe and sent a stream of smoke between his lips. "I'm glad you've come, you spared me sending a message, or coming to you."

"I prefer to stand."

"As you wish."

They made an impressive pair, grandfather and grandson, both quiet and impassive, both commanding in their very presence, one seasoned with years and experience, the other young and full of promise. Halbarad watched Dírhael closely, as he knew his father would wish.

"This can't be allowed, Hallor," Dírhael said. "Talk is talk, and people will be themselves, but Ingold and Daeron are leading this, and they must be commanded to stop."

"Would that it were so simple, my friend. Would you wish that I stop the captains' council? How else are we to govern the Rangers?"

Dírhael crossed his arms over his chest. "Gossip is not the captains' council. It will rather interfere with the decisions that must be made."

"It is not gossip," Aragorn said quietly. "It happened. People have opinions. It's up to me to prove them wrong."

Hallor spoke around the stem of his pipe. "Quite right." 

"You know it's far more than that," Dírhael said. "There's talk of not acknowledging Aragorn as chieftain. Don't tell me you will support this."

Halbarad snapped, "How can you even think that?"

Hallor held up his hand. "Let us at least stay calm; leave the short tempers to the others. To answer you, Dírhael: no, I do not support this. My proposal to the council will be that I continue as acting chieftain for the time being, and that I will teach Aragorn till he is of age—a bare four years from now, may I remind you."

"It has never happened that way before," Dírhael said.

"Not since Valandil." Hallor cracked a smile. "Indeed, the continuity of the line is remarkable. Gondor would be full of envy, if she knew."

Dírhael paced across the room. Halbarad noticed that Aragorn was watching him closely. "I have no quarrel with the law, but I fear more than this is intended by Ingold at least."

"You are right," Hallor answered. "Old grievances against Elrond still rankle. There is talk that Aragorn is too Elvish."

"So my wife told me," Dírhael growled. 

Aragorn stirred from his silence. "I'm very aware of my deficiencies, but I don't consider being too Elvish to be among them."

Dírhael turned on him with a sardonic smile. "No indeed. We are faced with the ignorance of idiots here."

Hallor sighed. "If that is how you intend to speak at the council, Dírhael, you will help nothing."

"I will curb my tongue, Hallor, do not fear. I will be your staunchest supporter. Unlike some others, I will leave my family quarrels out of this."

Hallor raised his eyebrows. "Good! For you know that Daeron will not."

"He is a fool," Dírhael said harshly. "Let him dig his own grave, for no one will listen to the raving of a bitter man. It's Ingold that worries me."

"Amloth arrived from Fornost this morning, with word from Taelos in the far north; you and Beleg will speak for Sarn Ford. We lack only the men from Bree and the Shire. As soon as they come, I will convene the meeting. As for Ingold, leave him to me."

"Already he fills Amloth's ears with discontented grumblings. Beleg, at least, argues with him on Aragorn's behalf."

Aragorn looked up, his eyes glinting with anger. "I do not fear their judgment. And I want no honors or respect that I haven't earned."

Hallor smiled wryly. "May I say that there is no danger of that? They will test you. It will be hard, but in the end you will benefit, and so will we. But never doubt that I stand behind you."

"And I," said Halbarad.

His face solemn, Aragorn bowed his head. "I will not let you down."

~oOo~

The council convened in the Commons, where tables had been placed in a great square. Fires blazed in the hearths against the winter chill; torches lit the vast hall. When Halbarad entered, the men and women of the Keep were already seated on benches along the walls to witness the proceedings. Not yet a captain, he chose a seat behind Dírhael, Beleg, Hawk, Ivorwen, and Iorlas, at the far end of the bench and at an angle so as to see as many faces as possible. A swathe of empty places separated him from Ingold and Daeron, their heads bent in whispering. Amloth and the men from the Bree-lands had joined Ingold—a deliberate indication of support, Halbarad knew. 

At the head table sat Hallor with Aragorn at his right, looking pale but calm. The thick, dark table was bare except for the carved box in which the captains would place their tokens—a grey or white stone—in case a vote needed to be taken. 

With a nod of his head, Halbarad met Aragorn's eyes, smiled briefly, and got a nod in return. He had never before understood why arms were banned at the captains' council. But now, even the clatter of a sheathed blade as a man rose from his place would set hearts racing in this tense hall. He restrained his feet, itching to tap with impatience, until Hallor rose to convene the council. For the first part of the meeting, faces looked unfocused and murmurs continued from the corners of the room as routine matters of trade and supply were settled. The Dwarves had not allowed the threats in the Wild to slow their caravans—yet.

Although he already knew much of the news from the outposts, Halbarad found his disquiet growing as he listened to the captains' reports. Nothing worse than the Uruk raid near the Angle had as yet happened, but every man had tales of frightened folk and strangers on the move. These few meant more would come, Halbarad knew. __How_ _are_ _we_ _to_ _face_ _these_ _coming_ _years_?_ __Where_ _did_ _the_ _Uruks_ _come_ _from_? _Will_ _Angmar_ _rise_ _again_?_

Silence fell as Hallor rose again to address the final business of the meeting.

"Captains, amid all the grim news, there is one good thing, and it is not a small one. Aragorn son of Arathorn, by birth the rightful chieftain of the Dúnedain and the Heir of Isildur, has returned to us. This is a great day for the Dúnedain, and a joy close to my heart. Already, although he is not yet twenty-one years old, Aragorn shows all the promise of his father, my cousin. But it is our law that he may not act as chieftain in his own right until he comes fully of age at twenty-five. And our ways are as yet unknown to him. Therefore some interim solution must be found. It is my proposal that I continue as acting chieftain, as I have since the death of Arathorn, with Aragorn at my side to learn all that he needs to know. I believe that he is a man of great ability and will be chieftain in fact as well as name sooner than men may expect."

Halbarad held his breath as his father paused and cast a long look around the room. "If any among you oppose or question this, now is the time to speak and to settle our differences."

"I would speak." Ingold's strong voice echoed across the room. With a dignity befitting his standing among the Rangers, he rose to his feet and moved to the front of the room. "Captains, it is time for the Dúnedain to reconsider how leadership is decided among us. For many years the Heirs of Isildur, from father to son, have ruled us as the descendants through Elendil of the kings of Númenor. We have been fortunate until now that every chieftain has been a man of full age and proven leadership, as he must be. Our lives depend upon it, the lives of our wives and children depend upon it. But fortune will not always serve, as it does not now. We must establish, by law, that the chieftain will be chosen by the council and not by happenstance of birth."

He turned to Hallor directly. "Aragorn has no knowledge of our ways, you say. But it's more than that: He is barely out of boyhood. He has dwelt only with the Elves. He is the son of Elrond rather than of Arathorn. He speaks Westron in the manner of Rivendell. He doesn't know his own people. What has he seen of hardship? He is a skilled swordsman, but can he fight with an empty belly? Has he ever shivered through a winter on scarce rations?"

"What would you propose, Ingold?" asked Hallor.

"You must remain as chieftain. You are proven and also of the line of Isildur. Why must the chieftainship go always from father to son? It may be that Aragorn will be the next chieftain. But our need should stand above our tradition."

His voice sharp, Hallor met Ingold's eye. "You pose a conflict where there is none, captain. By need and tradition, the inheritance of Isildur passes from father to eldest son of the body. Our people are greatly diminished, but still the line of Isildur is unbroken. There is some great purpose here. Why else have our people survived the ruin of the kingdom? We guard the line of Elros and the way of Númenor."

Ingold held up his hand. "I don't propose to turn aside from the line of Elendil or the heritage of Númenor. Aragorn is by birth the Heir of Isildur and no one can challenge that. He carries the sword of Elendil. But why must the chieftain and the Heir be the same man? The Heir of Isildur is nothing without his people. How best can we guard our people as well as fulfill our duty?"

Another, angrier voice spoke up—Daeron. "This is not Elrond's House, nor Númenor, nor the Kingdom of Arnor, but the Wild of Eriador. Sure, Aragorn speaks perfect Quenya and knows the ancient lore. Of what use is this? This Elven princeling will flee back to Rivendell at the first hard winter."

Frowns appeared on some faces, and Beleg leaped up from his chair and matched Daeron's anger with his own. "These words are unfit for this chamber! I will not tolerate your grudges—" 

But Hawk seized his arm. "Watch your tongue! This is no place for any man's temper."

Hallor spoke out sharply, "Keep order, captains." He waited for the clamor to die down. "Ingold, do you have more to say?"

"Not at this time." Ingold returned to his seat.

IHalbarad tried to catch Aragorn's eye. __Show_ _them_! _Do_ _something_!_ But Aragorn just stared down at his hands.

Dírhael rose next. "We must not allow our anger at the actions of Elrond to cloud our judgment. I myself remain greatly dissatisfied with the Lord of Rivendell. He dared to remove my own daughter from her home without any word to her father. But this question must be handled separately. I propose that Hallor go to Rivendell and make known our displeasure."

Amloth said darkly, "He may go, but will he enter? Or will he disappear for eighteen years?"

Dírhael's dark glare withered like a dragon's eye. "You know little of Elrond, to say so. We may disagree with his action, but he sought to protect the Heir of Isildur. Captains, have we not just heard how great the dangers are?"

Amloth shouted, "Then you too think we cannot protect our own children?"

"Silence," said Hallor sternly. "Dírhael has the floor."

Dírhael continued, "I see that Elrond has done his duty by Aragorn son of Arathorn and raised a man to lead us. We all of us were young once, although some may not remember it." He looked directly at Ingold.

A silence fell across the room. Aragorn lifted his head then. Rising slowly from his seat, he swept his gaze across the room, pale but with a confidence that Halbarad knew he did not wholly feel. 

"My lords! Hear me, I beg you. The Shadow and its menace are growing strong indeed. The strength of the Dúnedain must be preserved for the war ahead—for it will be a war. This is the business of my life, as Elrond taught me. That I am untested, I know better than any. That I am young will change inevitably with time. That I am the chieftain of the Dúnedain and the Heir of Isildur is by birthright and law. But in the end, none of these is the real question. I ask to be judged not by my title, nor by my youth or fosterage, but as a man. I must earn my Ranger star as any man would. I will not renounce my birthright, but I will stand in the ranks of the Rangers and earn your trust and good will to prove myself fit to be your chieftain in fact. You will decide when that time is come."

Murmurs broke out across the room. Halbarad saw that Hawk and a number of other men were nodding in approval. 

Hallor raised his arm for silence. "I will withdraw my proposal in favor of Aragorn's. Ingold, will you reconsider?"

"My proposal stands," Ingold called out.

"Does any man wish to speak further?" Hallor scanned the room, but no one spoke. "Then we will vote. A grey stone for Aragorn's proposal, a white stone for Ingold."

Halbarad could hardly breathe while votes were taken and counted. In the end, Aragorn won with eight votes to Ingold's four.

"Well done, cousin," he murmured as in Aragorn's ear as he embraced him. Aragorn smiled, but the tension still played in his face.


	17. The Dagger

Food and drink were set out for all when the council adjourned. Not hungry, Aragorn wished desperately to be alone. _This is the first test of manhood—to endure the challenges of every day, both the petty and the real._

Halbarad brought him a mug of beer. "Good speech. If that's the result of Elrond's schooling, it was time well spent."

Aragorn laughed as he accepted the drink, discovering he had a thirst after all. "He isn't counted among the Wise for nothing."

Beleg appeared suddenly at Aragorn's side. "Spoken like a true son of your father! The blood of Númenor runs in your veins, son of Arathorn. Even Ingold is impressed."

His brilliant eyes made Aragorn uneasy. "Thank you."

Beleg turned to Hallor. "I'd like to come to Rivendell with you, if you can spare me from the road."

Hallor shook his head. "Not this time, Beleg. I need you at the Weather Hills. I'm taking Ingold with me to Rivendell, to settle at once this tiresome business of the past. It is all the more urgent now—we must work together with Elrond's scouts, and heal the breach with his sons."

Beleg's Elf-keen eyes darkened, but he shrugged lightly. "Another time, then," and he turned away to the table of food.

Aragorn stepped closer to Hallor to close the gap between them, in case Beleg thought to come back. He felt guilty that he could not warm up to his father's best friend. "Elrond recognizes this as much as you, if not more."

Hallor nodded curtly. "Now the hard work begins. I'd like the teams out by next week. We need a thorough search of all the lands beyond even our usual reach. I'm sending the largest team into the mountains, looking for more signs of those Orcs. The two of you"—he nodded at Halbarad and Aragorn—"will go south to Tharbad and then up the Greenway to the North, with Hawk and Malbeth. Dírhael and Ivorwen will be making a long stay with Gilraen in the spring, but you may join them later, Aragorn, if you will. I need you in the field till summer."

Somehow the prospect of facing wargs, wolves, Orcs and Trolls—and other, unknown agents of Mordor—seemed easier than life in the Keep. Aragorn suspected that Hallor knew how he felt. "The sooner the better. I will sharpen my sword."

"My quiver is full," said Halbarad.

~oOo~

Aragorn had spent too many sleepless hours staring into the dark, trying to banish the leering Orcs, screaming children and indeterminate terror that his dreams brought. Once he had even dreamed of the kinslaying at Aqualondë, and woke in a shuddering sweat. Whether it was relief that the council was at last over, or the potency of the excellent ale, that night he slept well. The nightmares that had plagued him since Brelach's death left him at peace.

The next morning he went to the healer's cottage to see Saelind. Thinner and frailer each day, she was half-asleep on her couch before the fire, but her face lit up like the sun when he entered the room. She held out her hand, and he took it in both of his and kissed it.

"I heard about the council meeting," she said. "You did well."

Aragorn smiled down at her sweet, wrinkled face. "I was expecting that you would not approve, and would have me claim lordship at once." 

She shrugged. "You will be chieftain. And more. There is no hurry."

"I don't find it so easy to be patient."

She chuckled. "Impatience is a vice of youth."

"It's not that I am so sure of myself."

"I know. You are, if anything, even harder on yourself than the others are. You know that only makes their criticisms more difficult to bear."

He bowed his head. "You are right."

"Of course I'm right," she said, in her spirited way. "At my age I had better be right. There's no more time for learning." She gazed out of the window for a time. "Soon you will leave again for the Wild, Aragorn, my son's grandson. That will be our final parting. I won't live past this winter."

"Don't say that."

"It's all right," she said gently. "I don't mind coming to the end, not as old as I am. It's the unpleasant process of dying itself I mind. Arassuil was the last of us to choose the passage of Númenor. I see now that those who choose such a death are fortunate indeed. But I too am lucky in my own way. I am with my loved ones, not on some battlefield with Orc cries all around me."

He was silent. She turned her wise eyes to his face. "It's being robbed of the years that are your due—that's what will make you bitter. As Arador and Arathorn were robbed, of so many years of life, of knowing their grandson and son."

"Yes." Being in Thurnost had burned that loss in his heart. 

"But you must live. Why are you so sad, Aragorn?"

He wondered how to answer. "I seem always to want things that I can't have," he said at last.

"And what are these things?"

"To have known my own father, as you have just said. To win honor and respect. To meet Elrond's hopes for me. How likely is that?"

"There's something more. Tell me."

He stared at the floor between his feet, and then said, "A woman I love, who does not love me." Yearning twisted in his heart. _And when I return to Rivendell next summer, how will she greet me? Maybe it would be best not to go. My mother can visit with her family all the better without me._ But he knew that he would go, that still he hoped Arwen would welcome him. _A lovesick fool am I._

"Ah." She paused, but her eyes were on his face. "A woman of the Elves? You are not the first to be caught in that enchanted web."

"No, but that is not much comfort."

"Elves and Men may come together for a time, in friendship or in love, but our fates are apart."

"So it is said."

"When it comes time for you to marry, you will find a woman of our people, and you will forget this first love."

_That will never happen._ He knew this with the certainty of the rising of the sun. He said nothing. He felt Saelind's gentle eyes on his face, and she squeezed his hand with a light sigh, and, to his relief, changed the subject. "Our struggle seems hopeless, doesn't it? All these years, defending the wisdom and heritage of Númenor, and for what? Only to pass into the shadows and see defeat at last. No one sees much hope. The discontent in the Keep comes down to that."

"Then we need at least some small victory to keep our spirit alive."

"The victory is that we are still here at all. From that I take my hope. I used to wonder at it when I was a girl at my lessons: defeat after defeat, and men killed in the Wild, but still we went on. I asked my father once, and he said, 'Great things do not fall in everyone's lifetime. But we who fight now prepare the way for the great to come.' And he showed me this poem." She gestured toward a shelf on the far wall where a few books rested. "Fetch me the small volume in red leather."

He brought her a collection of poetry, copied without color or refinements, small and light for travel. 

"Turn to the last page, and read it to me."

Aragorn found the poem she wished to hear. He recognized it as a sonnet of Malbeth the Seer, the last poet of the court of Arnor, who wrote the verses after the kingdom foundered and Arvedui and his men drowned in the icy bay of Forochel. Malbeth himself lived on under Aranarth, the first chieftain, but he was old, ill and blind, his gift of foresight of little use. Aragorn read aloud:

_When I consider how my light is spent_ _  
_Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,_  
_And that one talent which is death to hide_  
_Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent_  
_To serve therewith my maker, and present_  
_My true account, lest he returning chide,_  
_"Doth He exact day-labour, light denied?"_  
_I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent_  
_That murmur, soon replies, "He doth not need_  
_Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best_  
_Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state_  
_Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,_  
_And post o'er land and ocean without rest;_  
_They also serve who only stand and wait."*__

Saelind stroked the page with her old, gnarled finger. "Malbeth the blind prophet understood that even those who must live through a period of defeat have a job to do, even through the shattering of the old kingdom and the end of the line of the kings." Her mouth quirked in a mischievous half-smile. "Due to Gondor's tom-fool stewards, may I say. I want you to have this book, Aragorn, and read it when you need comfort. Put it in your pack when you travel. And there is one other thing I wish you to have. That chest there, on the shelf. Open it, and bring me the sheathed knife at the bottom."

Dark with age, the chest was carved with the stars of the House of Elendil. He opened it, and beneath a small packet of letters tied with a yellowed piece of string, found a knife in a dark red leather sheath. Taking it up, he drew the dagger, long, leaf-shaped, damasked with serpent-forms in red and black: a blade of the old kingdom, runes fashioned with small winking red gems along the hilt. He sheathed it and laid it across her two outstretched palms.

"This knife came to my husband on a dark day—the day his father, Arathorn, the first of that name, met his death. In those years the people living in Srathen Brethil, far to the north, were beset by terrible monsters, _raugs_ , and their village destroyed. Arathorn led a party of Rangers to rout out the _raugs_ , and his son and grandson, my husband and my son, rode with him. Argonui found this knife in one of the hoards in the dens where the beasts live; it came to his hand as if he had called it, and with it he killed the beast that threatened his life. But his father died—his arms torn from his body." Her eyes grew remote with memory. " _Ai_ , what we have suffered. In later years, when we heard the tidings from Gandalf the Grey that Sauron was indeed in Dol Guldur, and sought news of Isildur's Heir—well, it is only a wonder that more of the chieftains did not meet such deaths, his creatures always searching, searching."

She grasped the blade in her wrinkled fingers and pressed the hilt in Aragorn's hand. "Take this knife. It was forged many generations ago to destroy the evil out of Angmar. Enchantments for the bane of Mordor lie upon it. It saved Argonui's life more than that first time. My heart tells me that one day it will save your life as well."

"I will keep it with me always, and the book too. I will never forget you, brief as it has been. You have helped me more than you can know."

She nodded, as if she already did know. "I am glad."

He knelt for her blessing, and she kissed his forehead, her eyes warm with love. "Don't lose hope, Estel. Carry Narsil with you, too, from time to time, that you will not forget your purpose. May the Queen's falcons watch over you."

~oOo~

Ivorwen had made Aragorn winter clothes for the road: rough and dark, sturdy and warm; a thick woolen mask, scarf, vest, socks and leggings, and a heavy, dark green cloak with a deep hood. He added Saelind's book and dagger to his pack, but locked Narsil in the great chest in his quarters. The Ring of Barahir, as always, he wore strung on its chain around his neck.

After three days of consulting maps and packing equipment and supplies, in two boats the four Rangers left at dawn from Thurnost's small bay. Aragorn felt as if a weight lifted from his shoulders as the towering walls of the Keep disappeared behind them. Exulting in his newly returned health and strength, he matched Halbarad's paddling stroke for stroke.

Their days were long and hard, searching for the enemy, living off the land and the river. By boat they went to Tharbad and from there on foot headed north on the ragged track that was all that remained of the Great Royal Road. Daily Aragorn pushed himself to the limit of his strength, and felt his body hardening, toughening, growing. He slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion each night, and for that he thanked the hard road. 

One night, on watch, he saw a shooting star. The clear, cold and crisp, moonless night shone with stars as bright as Arwen's eyes in a sky as black as her hair, and a great heart seemed to fill the heavens. _Saelind_. The noble, beautiful face he saw in the stars was hers, as she had been in her youth. He stayed up the night to see her spirit to its rest. 

_Goodbye, Aragorn, my son's grandson._

In the morning, when Halbarad cuffed him for keeping the watch all night, he said, "Our great-grandmother died last night."

"You were dreaming, asleep on your feet."

"No," he answered, with a shake of his head. "She is gone. I felt her pass away, at peace."

Halbarad sighed. "She said goodbye to me before we left, but still I had hopes, foolish as it is. I believe you. I will miss her."

"So will I." Aragorn bowed his head, grief suddenly choking his heart. _So little time we mortals have till death takes us out of the world. It is a poorer place without her._

_*The sonnet is shamelessly adapted from the great John Milton, the poet of the English Civil War._


	18. The Haven of Rivendell

The fragrant summer caressed the Hidden Valley like a lover's hands. Green-gold leaves cast their flickering shadows over the stone terrace, warm from the mid-day sun. Sitting at her small work table, which she had placed on the balcony to enjoy the fine day, Gilraen was embroidering a hem, which she hated—weaving was her great love. She broke into a murmured tune: "My son," she sang, "where are you? We are waiting, and you are late."

Stretched out on a couch, Dírhael spoke without opening his eyes. "He's only a week overdue, daughter. Surely you know better than to expect a Ranger on the hour."  
  
Gilraen put down her handiwork. "Of course. But it's more than ten days, not a week. It's been nearly twenty years since I had all my loved ones together. And I fear Hallor will call you back before Estel comes."  
  
"I will not leave before _Aragorn_ comes," Dírhael said grumpily, emphasizing the name. "But I am enjoying the peace that his absence lends us."  
  
"That's not the first time you've made such a remark, papa. What am I supposed to think? Do you dislike my son?"  
  
Dírhael opened his eyes and gave Gilraen what she called his Father look. "That is an absurd question, daughter. You know how I regard my family. But he is not a restful young man, to say the least."  
  
Resuming her work, Gilraen smiled to herself. _True enough, father. And indeed I do know that you rarely let pass your lips how much you love us all._ "Still, I worry. How can I not? Elrond does too, I know." _Although he thinks he hides it from me, I know well he is distressed at this story of Estel's fall_. She sighed to herself. Ever since her son's unfortunate entanglement with his daughter, she had felt uneasy in Elrond's presence. Neither of them had ever spoke of it, but it lay like a shadow across their earlier easy companionship. "Is it for nothing that Elrond sends scouts to find Gandalf? That Thranduil sends tidings of the Nazgûl returned to Dol Guldur?"  
  
"Your woman's worry does no good," her father said sternly. "Else we'd all be safe if you just fret enough."  
  
Gilraen smiled to herself again. _How I love him, my difficult father!_ "Yes, papa."  
  
"Humph," he said. "Now you are humoring an old man." But he lay back on his couch and closed his eyes again.  
  
Gilraen resumed her work, and the slow peace of the day, like golden drops of honey seeping from a sieve, settled on her. Her father dozed. _He has never had a true rest like this. May he visit me often in the years to come._  
  
The brisk footsteps in the hallway signaled her mother's approach. Ivorwen's face glowed as she burst into the room. "Word has just come—Estel has crossed the Ford. He'll be here tomorrow."  
  
" _Aragorn_ ," said Dírhael.  
  
Ivorwen ignored him. "We will have a dinner for the family tomorrow. Elrond has announced a feast for all in three days."  
  
"He is well?" Gilraen asked. "He is not hurt?"  
  
"Not that anyone said. Don't worry so." Ivorwen patted her cheek fondly.  
  
_He is safe_ , Gilraen thought, relief washing over her. She had hardly realized how much anxiety had gripped her. _He is safe. That's all that matters._

"How is it word reaches the House so quickly?" Dírhael grumbled.

"The sentries," Gilraen said. 

"Sentries who fly through the air to bring news to Elrond?"

"You know you are not to ask such questions."

"You mean I know better than to expect an explanation. Now I understand why Elrond is so famously courteous: it's to avoid answers. No doubt, if I asked, he would say how happy he is that _Aragorn_ has returned to the Valley. Just as much of an answer as I got to my other question: a warm smile and sweet words about what an honor it was to house my daughter and grandson all these years."

Every time she thought of her father's interview with Elrond, Gilraen shuddered. "Even you would not dare question Elrond about his defenses, papa. For all your brave talk, I know you are too wise for that."

Dírhael snorted. "No worry, daughter. I know when to hold my tongue."

The next day she waited on the broad front steps of the House when Estel rode into the yard: Elladan and Elrohir had ridden ahead to meet him on the road, bringing another mount to speed his way. Weary, gaunt, and bearing a bloody bandage around his arm, her son resisted her embraces. "I am all mud, lady mother, and unfit for your company."

"Foolishness," she said, alarm spiking yet again. And yet somehow he looked older and taller, as if in less than a year he had aged several. "What happened? How were you hurt?"

"I ran into some Orcs east of the Weather Hills, but they had the worst of it."

She suppressed her urge to cry out, knowing he would hate her fuss. "You are bleeding."

Elrohir said, "The wound is healing, Gilraen. He needs rest and food, is all."

"First of all, a bath," said Aragorn. "Then a hot meal, then sleep. I will keep you company in the morning, mother."

And so she had to wait for the family meal, which became a late breakfast the next day. Looking much better without the grime of the road and after long night's sleep, her son ate heartily of the good food she set out and told them of his journey. His eager face and strong voice reminded her of the many times Estel had sat in that very place, telling her of his latest deeds in the Wild.

"We spent spring at Sarn Ford, and scouted south and west of the Shire. What odd creatures those Hobbits are! I had to force myself not to stare. So comical and harmless, and surely their land is the safest place in all Eriador. There is nothing to fear there. But in Bree—'the grandest town in your realm, my lord,' Halbarad said to me—we heard tales of Trolls east of the Weather Hills. Rangers later told me some of the hillfolk had fled to the downs. Some trouble between their tribes, I understand. I stayed the summer at Fornost, up the Greenway, with our people there. Did you know the Breelanders call it 'Deadmen's Dike'?"

Dírhael snorted. "That's the least insulting name they have for it."

Aragorn's eyes twinkled. "And what is their name for you, grandfather?"

Dírhael's lips twitched. "The Old Wolf. They are not stupid, for all their innocence."

Aragorn laughed. "Indeed not."

"And you?"

"I think they deemed me too new for a special name. At least, I did not hear any. I traveled as 'Anborn,' however, for safety. Well, a month ago, leaving Fornost, Halbarad and I went across the downs to the northern reach of the Weather Hills to join the post there. There'd been one Orc raid from the north—not Uruks this time, but lesser goblins, nothing seemingly beyond the usual but that we know Mordor is awakening. When it came time to leave for Rivendell, I struck out alone across the country toward the Hoarwell. And it is well I did, because I saw signs of Troll activity there. I did not see them, but only the debris of their wrecking." 

He paused for a long drink of hot tea—his favorite, Gilraen knew, with honey to sweeten. "And then I ran across two Orcs—scouting ahead, I guess, since their fellows were not long behind. Well, I took them, but got this wound in the process, and the others caught on to my presence and began to tail me. So all the way across the downs it was hide and seek. There were too many for me to take, so I had to hide in the night, alert without sleep, and run in the day. As a result, I slept little and ate less."

"Foolhardy," Dírhael said as he speared a muffin with a fork and lifted it to his plate.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. "To run from Orcs?"

"To go across such dangerous country alone."

Aragorn shrugged. "We must, I think. Too few men and too much territory to cover. And I mean to see every part of Eriador as soon as my feet will take me there."

"A long journey," said Dírhael skeptically.

"Have some of this gooseberry jam," Gilraen said, lifting a small blue pot. "It is superb."

Ivorwen laughed. "You will not distract them from a disagreement, my darling."

"I shall try all the same," Gilraen said. "How long I have dreamed of this day! Nearly all my dear ones together. We are lacking only Iorlas."

"It could happen often if you would agree to return to the Angle," said Dírhael, "as I wish."

"My dear," said his wife, "do not be quarrelsome."

"I mean to enlist Aragorn's support in this."

"You will fail," said Aragorn. "I would prefer her to remain here, where she is safe. That should count for much with you."

"She can be safe in the Angle."

"Not like here." 

"We protect our own people, at whatever cost," said Dírhael, frowning. "Despite Elrond's views."

Ivorwen laid her hand on his. "Husband, let's not have this argument again."

"Since you raise it," Aragorn said, "I would like to know if you have spoken to Elrond about this."

"Yes, I did," said Dírhael. "Of course."

"And he said?"

"He told me nothing. He said his answer was you."

"That's what I would have expected."

"I appreciate his point," Dírhael said, "as far as that goes. But he still does not answer why he believed us unable to protect our own children. I did not want to join my voice to the protest at the council meeting, but I, too, wonder about this. Why refuse to tell us anything? Why leave these questions, whether you and Gilraen even lived, causing such anguish to your family?"

"It seems to me that everyone knew quite well that we were here, whether Elrond admitted it or not," Aragorn said. "No one expressed surprise, just anger or perhaps relief."

"All the more reason not to have this secrecy. And to keep us out of the Valley for all these years? I will never accept that necessity."

Gilraen was looking from her son to her father and back again. "Do you always argue so?" she asked.

Ivorwen chuckled. "They butt heads, my dear. It's on account of being so alike."

Dírhael snorted. "He is a young pup, heir of Isildur or no."

"I won't argue with that," Aragorn said. 

"For myself," Ivorwen said, "I'm glad you both were here in the Valley all those years, and I agree with Gilraen and Aragorn that she should stay here. I am well aware, Dírhael, of your reason: you simply want your daughter nearer. It gives credit to your heart, husband dear, but not your head. Have you forgotten how difficult these last years have been? Perhaps we would have lost Aragorn to the fevers that took so many children fifteen years ago."

Gilraen shook her head. "I am still shocked and grieved over Ariel's death."

"That was perhaps the biggest single blow since you left us," said Ivorwen. "Her pregnancy had gone well, but then the child—a son—was stillborn. We had no sign of trouble until the very end. Beleg has never gotten over it. I felt so helpless, but I will say no more lest I spoil the occasion."

Aragorn said, "There are troubles enough today. I have not yet asked about Saelind."

Ivorwen laid her hand on his. "She died last February. You had not yet heard, I gather."

"Not formally," Aragorn said. "But I knew. She died at night on the fifteenth, is that not so?"

"In her sleep," Ivorwen said. "A peaceful death. But how did you know that?"

His eyes seemed to look inward. "I saw it." 

"Ah," Ivorwen said softly. "I thought you had some of the Sight, and so it is. But it is better not to speak too much of it.

Aragorn nodded, and returned to his hotcakes.

_Ai, my son, your gifts are too much burden._ Gilraen sighed, and took up her glass. "Well, then," she said softly. "This morning we will remember our lost ones, too, as we enjoy each other's company here for the first time." And she smiled through her tears, as the face of her dead husband, so like her son's, filled her mind.

~oOo~

Knowing the importance that Elrond placed on such formalities, Gilraen had passed her mother several of her treasures in colors to suit her plainer style, and had arranged for a fine brocaded tunic to be delivered to her father. "We must look more than our best at the feast," she said. "It is more than a welcome to Estel, it is an honor to all the family."

"Just so, my darling," said Ivorwen.

For herself Gilraen chose a flowing, soft blue gown with a girtle of silver, and arranged her braids in a tressure netted with opals. She brushed soft, curling tendrils to frame her face, and took a good look at herself in the polished mirror in her dressing room. She would be forty-five in December, in several months time—for a woman of Dúnedain blood, still young. __

She heard a step behind her and turned to see her son in the doorway. He bowed. "You are enchanting, as always."

She laughed and cast a critical mother's eye over his tall figure. "You will do—plain dress as usual, but you do wear it with a lordly air."

He wore a simple deep green tunic, his only ornament the Ring of Barahir on his finger, his hair and beard well trimmed. To her eye he looked well but pale beneath the sunburn of his summer on the northern downs. He held out his hand and opened it so that she could see what lay there. "I asked for this from Elrond. Will you pin it on my breast?"

Cupped in his strong, capable hand, the Elendilmir gleamed—small, but so exquisite. Taking it, she fastened it to the rich cloth on his right shoulder. "Kingly, I should say," she said with a smile, and smoothed out a wrinkle. "An appropriate honor for the occasion."

He bowed again and held out his arm to her, and together they left for the Hall of Feasts. _And how much of this kingly appearance is for the sake of a certain daughter of Elrond? Lady Arwen, will you break my son's heart yet again?_ Underneath her worry for her son's happiness was a sting of hurt pride: for all his love and guardianship of the line of Isildur, Elrond would never consider the Chieftain of the Dúnedain to be a suitable husband for his daughter.

The mellow light of the late summer afternoon gilded the great hall, where the candles were as yet unlit. On her son's arm, Gilraen joined her parents and Elladan and Elrohir at the high table on the dais. Elrond and Arwen had not yet entered, but soon Gilraen's quick ears caught the rich tones of Arwen's musical voice. She tried to be discreet about watching her son's reaction as Arwen and Elrond approached. He appeared composed and calm, but Gilraen knew that look of quiet intensity in his eyes. 

_Ai! She is so lovely, how can he not lose his heart? I am fortunate that Arathorn never knew her._

The Lady of Rivendell moved across the room with a dance-like step as natural as breath. Rising onto the dais, she bowed gravely to her guests, her eyes courteous, remote. After murmuring words of welcome to Gilraen and her parents, she turned to the Heir of Isildur. "Welcome, Lord Aragorn, our guest of highest honor. I regret that I have not greeted you until now, but pressing duties occupied me." 

He raised her hand to his lips. "Lady."

She bowed her head and moved deliberately to her seat under a silver canopy, too far away for them to talk to each other.

Seated next to her son, Gilraen was painfully aware of his quiet distraction throughout the feast. As always, his grave courtesy charmed, but his mirthful side, usually a delight at such occasions for merrymaking, was not in evidence. Rivendell's kitchens had poured out their very best, and their best was a feast few in Middle-earth ever enjoyed in their lifetimes, but Aragorn seemed to have little appetite.

Gilraen noticed her mother watching him curiously. She said, with a gesture at his plate: "Do you not care for the salad, Aragorn?" 

He looked down at his untouched plate of delicate summer greens. Everyone else at the table had done with that course. The servers were waiting for him to finish before removing his plate.

"Usually," he said hastily. "But it does not suit me today." He nodded to the server to take the dish. 

Dírhael said, "You look like you would rather be slaying dragons."

Aragorn smiled, and picked up his goblet of wine. "I am more thirsty than hungry."

"A wine worthy of quenching the thirst of a god, I say," said Dírhael, and he raised his cup to his lips. Aragorn joined him.

_Good, father. Distract him._

By the time the celebration moved to the Hall of Fire, her son's eyes were bright with wine and some of the strain lurking in his jaw had gone. Relieved, Gilraen sank into the enjoyment of the music. Aragorn stood nearby, talking with friends from his youth. With satisfaction she saw that he had his back to Arwen, who sat with her brothers by the fireside. 

The music rose and fell, as voices entered and left the melody, all the while a flute and harp trilling like soft birdsong. 

Her father's voice, raised in argument, cut through her peace. He loved to talk philosophy and ancient lore with Lindir and Erestor; now they were engaged in a sharp exchange about the sons of Fëanor. __

"Dior should have given them the Silmaril, it's that simple," Dírhael insisted.

Gilraen heard her mother groan softly. "Not again."

"You don't understand," Erestor said. "The Silmaril was far more than an extremely valuable jewel. Dior rebuilt Doriath with its power. Without it, they would have been unprotected."

"It didn't protect them from Celegorm."

"Nothing could have done that," Lindir said.

"Do you persist in your neutrality, Lindir?" Dírhael asked him.

"I follow Elrond in this. He will not speak against either side, as you know."

"He has a good reason," Dírhael persisted. "You, in contrast, are not Dior's grandson and Maedhros's foster son. Nor did Celegorm's manservant leave your mother's brothers to starve in the wilderness."

Ivorwen snapped her eyes to her husband and his companions. "Perhaps you will take your argument outside? It's quite lovely with the waxing of the moon," she said sweetly.

_Well done, mother._ At least Elrond was not yet in the room to overhear this unwise conversation.

Obediently, the three moved off through the arched doorway into the fragrant evening. Ivorwen sighed with contentment, but Gilraen did not rediscover her peace. Her son now stood at Arwen's side in a shadowed corner. His two hands held one of hers, his head bent over her as he spoke into her ear. She stood motionless, not speaking, her eyes cast down, the pale oval of her lovely face hard to read.

Across the room, with the lilting music filling her ears, Gilraen could not hear his words. _My son, so unwise, give up this hopeless love._

Everyone else had to be seeing it too. Gilraen tried not to look at Elrond, who had just entered the hall and now sat in his great chair at the fire, his eyes filled with light. _A king of the Elves, for all he refuses the title, heir of Doriath and Gondolin._ Fortunately—or not, Gilraen hardly knew—Arwen withdrew her hand from Aragorn's and, with a small but firm shake of her hand, walked away. He stood gazing after her for a long moment, his face full of the mania of love, and then swiftly left the hall.

_At least now I will not have to watch the disaster unfolding before me. Perhaps there will be a few hours of peace and music. And father, at least, was out of the room. May it be that mother did not notice._

But she knew there was no chance of that. 

When at last, in the wee hours of the night, they returned to Gilraen's chambers, the door to Aragorn's room was firmly shut and dark. Either he already slept, or had gone out to spend the night with the trees and the stars—a habit of his from childhood, when he would disappear for a day, or two, to work out his distress. He called it "practicing his woodcraft," but Gilraen knew the real purpose.

"All right," said Ivorwen, as she threw open the doors to the balcony. "We are quite alone, and now you are going to tell me all about it."

"Father?" Gilraen asked.

"Already snoring. His arguing wore him quite out." Ivorwen gestured her out into the air, where the summer night smiled upon them. "What is going on between Aragorn and Elrond's daughter?"

Gilraen groaned and wrung her hands. "I was so hoping he would get over it."

"I'm listening. Tell me."

"I don't really know. He would not tell me much. Something happened between them, and then there was a quarrel. It happened right before he left the Valley for Thurnost. Oh, mother, it will not do. It will not do at all."

"Why not?"

"Elrond's daughter? Isn't that enough?"

"Does Elrond dislike it? He seemed to me to be keeping to a studied indifference."

"I don't know for certain what Elrond thinks about it, but I can guess. The Elves regard such matters very differently from the practices among the Dúnedain."

"So I have noticed," said Ivorwen wryly. "They have an ease and freedom that I quite envy—especially the women."

"I have never gotten comfortable with it, but Estel was brought up to it. He has kept company with a few of the women here—not that I know any details." She laughed uneasily. "I don't want to ask any more than he wants to tell. A man's own business, as my father taught me."

"He did at that," said her mother. "And speaking of fathers, you were saying about Elrond?"

"Well, Elrond would see it as his daughter's private affair. It is not uncommon for Elf-women to take lovers, and I would be very surprised if Estel were the first—"

Ivorwen rolled her expressive eyes.

"—but I'm sure Elrond would dislike it if it goes on. For Estel's sake, more than hers, I think. He believes my son must dedicate himself to his path, and turn away from all else. It's his destiny—such a burden for a young man. And as you can see, Arwen Undómiel is a large turn in the wrong direction."

"I don't know," said Ivorwen slowly.

"If you knew what kind of woman she is, you would see it."

"I see that she is utterly beautiful and wields a power of her own, as a veritable queen of the Elves."

"She is indeed. From what I understand, she has all but vowed to never marry, to spend her days protecting her people, until they seek the road West. She is Galadriel's granddaughter, you know."

"I figured she must be. Why have I never heard of her before? I knew only that Elrond had two sons. Then I come here and find a daughter."

"There is a mystery about it," Gilraen said. "All I know is that since her mother's capture and torture by the Orcs, she has lived in Lórien, and she is not spoken of to outsiders. It is five hundred years since she was in Rivendell—why should the Dúnedain know her? Neither Estel nor I had even heard of her until suddenly she appeared in Rivendell last August. If only she would have stayed away another few decades."

Ivorwen huffed. "Nice to have so much time! Well, I understand some things better now, like why he is so oblivious to the young women in the Angle. It was beginning to worry me."

"He must marry some day, although that day may be far off, if Elrond is right. There is time. He will get over it," Gilraen said.

"And why are you so sure he will not marry her?"

"Mortals do not wed with the Elf-kin. Only for a great purpose, as the old Tales tell us. You know that. Even he knows that. I did bring it up, and he said he knows better than to expect that. What he does expect I think he hardly knows himself. And she clearly has turned away from him. He will only break his heart."

"I don't know. I don't need my Sight to know that he loves her. The question is, what does she feel about him? I cannot tell, nor See it. But there is some future there, something of great importance. I know, because I Saw her in a dream with the green stone."

"Don't say that," Gilraen said. "You must be wrong. When did you See this?"

"Oh, I am not wrong, my dear. The dream came to me before I ever met her, and I have been wondering since what it means."

"Whatever you do, don't tell him about this dream, mother," Gilraen said. "Please. It will only feed his hopes, which are so very wrong. You don't know him. He feels things too much, you may not know it—"

Ivorwen smiled fondly at her daughter. "My darling, I do know it. There's a lot stirring underneath that young man's quiet. But if there is a future between them, it's for Arwen to tell him, not me, and at a time of her own choosing." 


	19. The Evenstar

Aragorn woke with a headache and a low groan as memory and longing flooded him: Her eyes glimmering like evening stars below the fringe of lashes against her cheek, her slight flush as he spoke. "I think of you every day. You said I would forget, but I have not. Please—"  
  
And her soft answer, "No," as she turned her face away. "I am no longer angry, but it is best put aside and forgotten. I am sorry." And she gently withdrew her hand that he had held captive like a wild dove.  
  
 _Now what should I do? Try again? Give up?_

__

_Give up—never.  
_  
Turning restlessly, he propped himself up on his elbows, letting the light cover fall from his chest as he gazed out the window. Pale light touched the green curtain of the trees; summer's sweet breezes filled his room with the scent of roses. _Rivendell._ On such mornings the  child Estel would be out of bed before dawn, embarking on great adventures in the woods above the House. 

Only three days earlier, he had made his way down the steep path into the Hidden Valley, panting with the weariness and pain of his long run from the Orcs. After the first greetings on the threshold of the House, fending off his mother's anxious questions, he had gone to the bathhouse and eased his travel-worn body into a steamy, oil-scented bath. Even his wound felt better in the clinging heat of the water. He soaked in the luxurious warmth, drowsy with the late afternoon birdsong and the gentle hum of bees. For the first time in many months he felt safe. He could put aside his weapons and armor and cast off fears of a knife blade in the back. 

The depth of his joy and relief to be again in the Valley surprised him. _No doubt the Dúnedain are right._ _I am too Elvish, at least to be at home in the Angle._

As the tension ebbed from his body, sinewy and hardened from the rigors of the road, the longing that he had guarded against and denied for so long overpowered him. 

_Arwen._

She had not joined the welcoming party awaiting him. Even as he cast an eye into the distance, hoping to see her, he told himself that he no longer cared. He told himself he had moved beyond this infatuation, for so he had determined it must be. But even then the protest rang hollow, and that night her musical voice, warm body and glowing face filled his dreams.

At his first sight of her at the feast, he found that his bitter anger had gone, melted in the heat of longing. _Is it thus that women unman men?_ All his jealous rage now seemed petty and foolish. He would beg her to take him to her again.

_What use is begging?_ He groaned again and fell back onto the bed, letting his hand drift to the polished wooden floor. _What a fool I am. I could not have done it worse, there in the Hall in front of everyone._

He had promised to join Elladan and Elrohir in wrestling that morning, and he had no time to spare to shed the aftereffects of too much wine. Action would suit him best, in any case—the best antidote for brooding. He leaped from the bed, dressed and strode through the House, still quiet in the early morning, and down the green terraces to the river for a long swim. The water cooled his body and his heart, and he let the vigor of his powerful strokes take over, till all he felt and saw was the sparkling water and the blue of the sky above when he lifted his face to the surface for a deep breath.

He arrived at the practice yard with damp hair and eager will. Elladan and Elrohir, already stripped, were grappling in the packed-earth ring. Breaking their hold, they burst out laughing. "We've been placing wagers," grinned Elladan. "If you would come or not."

"And miss an opportunity to throw you? Never." Aragorn scoffed as he threw off his clothes yet again.

The brothers, too, were in fine form, and he put all his strength and skill into the practice, his wounded arm well bandaged against any hurt. Running sweat and the exhilaration of the match set his blood racing in his veins. For an hour they battled, trading partners while the third sat out to throw comments at the two wrestlers. Last to compete were Elladan and Aragorn, who circled, grappled, circled, but no victor emerged.

"I call it a tie," Elrohir said at last. "Leave off."

Panting, the sweat pouring down his face, Aragorn was glad to comply. He passed a towel across his wet face and hair.

"Have you been growing, Estel?" asked Elrohir. "Is it possible for a Man of your age?"

Aragorn scowled at him. "No, I am done growing, thank you."

Elrohir approached him and poked him solidly in the chest. "Maybe not in height, but I think—oof!" Aragorn punched him in the belly.

Hanging his towel around his neck, Elladan considered Aragorn closely. "I think he is right. You may not be taller, but you have put on weight."

"And gotten hairier, judging from the whiskers you sprouted on the road. So wise to have trimmed them back, or I would have mistaken you for a shrubbery at dinner."

"Or a laundry heap," said Elladan. "That ragtag Ranger garb! I would never have known my little brother."

Aragorn lapsed into a wise silence as their mockery went on. After some time in the steam baths, the three of them took horses into the woods. His brothers spoke of their months in Mirkwood—the darkening terror in the south, the pressing shadows in the mountains. Somehow they managed to talk of these grave matters while keeping up the nonstop teasing, moving from beard and clothing to his haircut, his swordplay, his horsemanship, his "Elvishness," his names. "What, yet another? Anborn? That makes four, I think? Estel, Aragorn, Anborn." "That is only three." "You are forgetting the Dúnadan."

Nothing escaped their brotherly banter—except the subject of their sister. Her name did not pass their lips.

~oOo~

Aragorn did not see her that day, nor the next. She could be avoiding him, he reasoned, but he knew that the Yavannildi were already harvesting the early grain, and Arwen would be among them. "The Lady has great skill," he heard one of the cooks say as he entered the kitchen to beg a tart from one of his old childhood caretakers. "The grain will be especially fine this year." 

He made no attempt to find her—not after that impetuous, half-drunken wooing in the Hall of Fire. He did not ask after her, and no one mentioned the incident. _But they know, and I know they know, and they know I know they know—but, Elflike, we do not speak of it._

On the third day, as he finished his last cup of morning tea in company with his family, Elrond appeared at the door to Gilraen's parlor. "It's a beautiful morning," he said, after they had exchanged greetings. "Would you join me for a walk in the garden, Estel?"

Dírhael stirred, and Aragorn sensed his effort to keep back his muttered protest, " _Aragorn._ " Gilraen and Ivorwen stifled their smiles. From the look in Elrond's eyes, Aragorn suspected he had chosen the name deliberately. Such invitations from Elrond were usually the prelude to a talk of serious matters, like the day he had at long last learned of his true name and identity. It was characteristic of Elrond to allow his foster son time to rest and heal before talking to him of dark and dangerous matters.

They strolled through the grassy alleys to Elrond's herb garden, where Aragorn had spent many hours learning all that the master of Rivendell could teach him about the healing plants: their names and cultivation; how to cull them and prepare medicines; how to use them to heal wounds, illness and grief.

"I had wished to continue your training this summer," Elrond said, as he examined a valerian plant. "But it is not wise to undertake Elven healing when you are still recovering."

"The wound is healing fast," Aragorn said. "It has not kept me from sword practice or wrestling."

Elrond smiled. "I know well your fortitude and determination, but there is more risk than you know. It takes much strength to travel the pathways, and I do not wish to take you there at such a time. I would caution you again to use the skill in only the limited way that I have already taught you."

"I have had no cause to use the skill at all," Aragorn said. "Rather, I've been the patient."

"I know, and it troubles me greatly. Tell me about the battle, about Brelach's death, everything from the first news you heard of the Orcs near the Angle."

They sat together on a bench in the garden. As well as he could, Aragorn described the events of that day: Beleg's sudden appearance, wounded and distraught, on the bank of the river; the pursuit of the Uruks; the attack; and the panic that had struck him like a black cloud.

"What do you make of it, father? Do you believe, as I do, that it was some evil power?" He strove to suppress a shudder as the dread again seized him. But he could not deceive Elrond's clear sight, and his foster father laid a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"It has passed," he said softly. "But I fear you are right. But what? I don't know. Orcs do not have such powers; something else must be at work. The Enemy has many servants and weapons that are unknown to us. And now we have this news from Thranduil that the Ringwraiths have returned to Dol Guldur. It seems we gained nothing but false hope when Sauron was driven out more than ten years ago. Gandalf always feared we moved too late to truly weaken the Enemy. And it seems he has been proved right—Sauron is secure in Barad-dûr and his servants have reoccupied the old lair. There are rumors of Orcs and Trolls rampaging at will to the south of Mirkwood, and now your tale of an Uruk raid west of the mountains. I have sent messengers seeking Gandalf, who has been gone too long. We must take counsel."

"Gandalf! I have never met him."

Elrond laughed. "You will. I fear he will be annoyed with me that I hid you even from him."

_Then he will be at home in the Angle, I guess._ Aragorn snorted, avoiding Elrond's eyes. "He was not the only one."

"So I have heard." Elrond showed not the least bit of discomfort. "That's of little consequence to him! I, on the other hand, can point out that he has been so preoccupied with Dwarves and dragons lately that the Heir of Isildur has escaped his notice." Elrond's eyes twinkled briefly, but soon lost their humor. "Events will force his attention, I think. From what I have heard, I believe that Beleg was also affected by the strange power. I asked Hallor to send him to me for healing. It may be that I can learn more from him. And I would like very much to see him—he, too, spent some of his young manhood here in the Valley, in company with your father."

"Yes, he told me about it."

Before he spoke again, Elrond looked into his eyes with the penetrating gaze that Aragorn knew so well. "You, however, appear to have recovered completely from the evil, whatever it may have been. That may be in part due to the strength of the pathways. I do not know. It will be many years before we can know the full extent of your power."

"What can I do to guard against the evil, should I encounter it again?"

Trouble overtook the strength in Elrond's clear eyes. "I wish I knew. The Enemy is on the move. We should fear the worst: these were no stray Uruks, but his servants on some errand in the North. Maybe even the Ringwraiths will return. Sauron lost a great weapon in the North when the dragon fell. He will seek to forge a new one. And he will not cease looking for the Heir of Isildur. The danger to your life will not pass, but rather will grow. Take care, my son. Be cautious, and think well before you bestow your trust."

"Do you fear treachery then?" asked Aragorn with surprise.

"If I knew, then I would take action," answered Elrond. "I do not believe that the panic, as you call it, came from any weakness of yours, and I told Hallor and Ingold so. Already I have placed in your hands the finest sword you can carry, short of the reforged Sword of Elendil."

"My great-grandmother gave me the weapon that I used to kill the Orcs that trailed me in the Wild." Aragorn drew from his belt the dagger that Saelind had given him.

Elrond ran one light finger across the gleaming black hilt. "It's been many years since I saw one of these. It eases my heart that you carry it. Keep it with you always. Brelach's death was grievous, but he died doing what he was bred to do: protecting you. This more I can do: I will give you another horse from my stables, and you must ride him only."

An image of himself in his Elven finery, as he had appeared to the Dúnedain, mounted on a fine Elven horse, came into Aragorn's mind. "That is a handsome and generous gift. But I would accept only if you agree to keep the horse in your stable. I am the Dúnadan now, and I find I journey mainly on my feet. And I don't wish to take favors that the others don't have. You can no longer protect me, father."

Elrond sighed. "All too well do I know that. But you will always be set apart from them, my son. It is your destiny. I fear you have many lonely years ahead of you, and that you will not have the comforts of a home or a family of your own for many years."

Aragorn wondered if this was Elrond's gentle way of telling him that Arwen was not for him. He opened his mouth to broach the subject, but thought better of it. He knew his foster father well enough to see that Elrond wished to remain silent—at least for now—on this difficult subject. 

He bowed his head. "All the same, I will leave the Valley on my own two feet, and ride a horse of my own people when I am among them. But I will not forget your words of caution."

~oOo~

Another day passed by, and yet another, and still he did not see her. From the talk in the House, he guessed that the bountiful harvest demanded all her time. She did not appear even at meals with her father and brothers—at least, not when Aragorn joined them. He lingered in the place in the woods above the House where they had met—not out of any expectation that she would be there, but to daydream, to hope. Almost he made up his mind to go to her quarters and demand that she see him, but he blushed with shame when he remembered the last time he had done so. 

Here, in the mossy dell with its gurgling stream, he had first seen her—her hair loose and wild about her shoulders, her slender arms bare. He did not know her name, and when she told him, "Arwen," he did not know she was Elrond's daughter. Newly returned from the wild, he had heard only that a party of Elves had lately come from Lórien, and that the lords and ladies would gather for a welcoming feast that night.

He took this enchantress for one of the maids-in-waiting. His heart, already swelling with joy and pride at the new name he had just learned was his, leaped at the sight of such loveliness…a reckless bliss seized him, and there, at the edge of the small waterfall, trickling over the rocks into a golden-green pool, he kissed her. Against his chest her lovely body quivered like a taut bowstring, and she threw her arms about his neck.

"Will I see you after the feast?" he had asked, and she laughed, surprise in her eyes. "You will see me at the feast. I am the guest of honor. Did you not know?"

_Elrond's daughter. She is Elrond's daughter._

That night, the laughing girl—the untamed dryad of the mountains—became the Lady of Rivendell, all dignity and poise, as serene and stately as the Queen of the Valar. 

That clinched it. Her endless variety of mood and beauty would hold him in thrall forever.

At last he shook off the memories and took the trail back to the House. Ducking his head to pass under the bowered way into the orchard, he looked up—and there she was, her graceful form wrapped in a worn apron, her braided hair bound up in an old cloth, her arms around a huge sheaf of straw, and a smudge of dirt on her cheek.

He nearly collided with her as she struggled with her burden, sudden color flooding her face.

"Lady Arwen, may I help?"

"Thank you—but no—that is—"

And he realized that she carried reeds for the Yavannildi to make baskets—work that no man, Elf or mortal, should touch. "Oh, I see. Forgive me."

She bowed her head, and made as if to pass by him.

"Arwen—wait—I want to speak to you."

She stopped, and half-turned toward him, her eyes cast down. "I will be at dinner tonight. There will be plenty of time then for conversation."

"You know what I mean."

She stood there, silent, for a moment, raising her grave eyes to his face over the golden mass of straw. "Please, just let it be. It is best forgotten."

"I don't think so." 

She pressed her lips together and turned her head away. "It will only make things worse. Must you insist on this?"

"I ask it of your generosity."

Uncertainty darkened her eyes, but she did not turn away. "All right then. But first I must be rid of my burden. Can you wait for me here?"

"Gladly."

He paced restlessly as he waited, his heart thumping. She returned soon, the smudge of dirt and the apron gone. She wore a simple grey dress, her only ornament the single white gem that always nestled at her throat. Her braids flowed down her back, caught up in a silver band. 

She stopped before him, seemingly now calm, queenly. "What do you wish to say?"

His chance finally before him, he struggled for words. How foolish and petty his unworthy suspicions now seemed, how wrong his dismissal of her as heartless and cold! He tried to read her eyes, to judge her feelings, but her eyes showed only grave consideration. 

"I was wrong—I know that now," he said haltingly. "I presumed—I insulted you—forgive me, it was said in the heat of anger."

Her eyes flashed. "Anger—what cause had you?" She looked away, took a breath, and spoke again in a calmer tone. "I accept your apology, Lord Aragorn. And I too want to apologize. I never should have invited you into my bed. It was a mistake—one that has cost you more than me, and for that I am heartily sorry."

"I will never be sorry." __

She looked away from him, her cheeks faintly flushed. "It does not matter now."

"It matters to me." __

"You are a very determined man, Dúnadan, and too quick in your feelings. With time, they will pass."

"They will not pass. I love you." 

Two spots appeared on her cheeks. "You are not hearing me. It is over. I am truly sorry for any pain I have caused."

"I did think you loved me too."

She looked away again. "And you think that you own me because we lay together."

"I am ashamed of what I said." He studied her face, trying to read the emotions flitting across it. "Do you think that bedding you is all I want? I will love you all the same, always."

"I'm sorry. What else can I say?"

"Is there someone else, then?"

"No!" she cried. "Do you think every woman belongs to some man? Is it like that for your people? Then I pity them. I have chosen to live as a woman alone, with no husband or children, or even a longtime lover. I offered you friendship and pleasure, but that is not enough for you. And so I realized my mistake."

His words died in his throat. But he murmured, "I thought we had more than that."

She was silent.

"I don't presume to ask you for marriage, nor to again share your bed, but to talk to you sometimes. To know that when I come here, I will see you, and you will be happy that I am with you."

"I am always happy to talk to you as my father's foster son," she said, "but that is all."

He reached for her hand. She snatched it away. "Please," she said angrily. "You are a child."

"I think," he said deliberately, "you know better than that."

A slow flush spread over her cheeks, and he knew that she remembered as well as he. But she repeated, "A child, twenty years old." 

"Twenty-one now."

Amusement lit her eyes. "I cannot play at love with you. It will pass, and perhaps then we may be friends."

"It will not pass."

"Lord Aragorn," she said, looking him in the eyes, "we live in different worlds. Your place is not here, but with the Dúnedain, your destiny."

"Destiny!" The word tasted like poison on his tongue. "How many times must I hear that? It is only a dressed-up word to say I must do my duty. May I not choose for myself?"

"Few may do that with honor," she said. "I will tell you something. I, too, have a destiny—a warning that came to my mother in a dream. Then she was taken by Orcs, and I only just avoided a like fate. So my father, fearing, seeks to protect me. This is why you did not hear my name till a year ago, and why I live in Lothlórien under the guardianship of my grandparents. There is no safer place in Middle-earth. Soon I will return there, and it will be many years till I leave again." She looked down at her hands before meeting his eyes again. "Even if we were to love each other, it has no future."

"How coolly you say that," he said bitterly. "I cannot."

"I did not say it was easy," she said softly. "But time will take away the pain."

"Time! What do you know of time? What would you lose to let me be with you? It would only be for a little while, for I will die, and you will pass to the West."

She looked like he had struck her. 

"Forgive me." He caught her hands and drew them to his lips and kissed each one. She tried to pull them away, but he tightened his grasp, and he felt her yielding. He drew her closer. "Arwen."

She came into his arms then, laying her face against his chest. "Estel." He breathed in the scent of her, and whispered her name again, and kissed her hair. But just as he bent to kiss her lips, she broke away, and he saw tears in her eyes.

She hid her face in her hands briefly before she turned again to face him. "We will not speak of this again. Please do me this courtesy."

"For now. But I will come to you again, and you will give me a different answer."

Her eyes turned dark, but she raised her chin, and said in a calm, clear voice, "Farewell, Lord Aragorn."

And she turned and moved swiftly down the path to the house. To his amazement, she stumbled briefly over a gnarled root, and then, abandoning all dignity, fled through the trees. 

__

~oOo~

All that night, he debated with himself: should he leave it, or try again? For all her rejection, he knew, now, she was not indifferent. _She cannot deny this love. She must not._ The next morning, he strode to the wing of the House where her private quarters lay. A golden-haired Elf-woman, whom he knew as one of the maids-in-waiting who had come with her mistress from Lórien, opened the door to his knock. Behind her glimmered the green-gold light of an airy room with many windows looking out to the gardens.

Her polite, remote eyes traveled over his face. "Good morning, Lord Dúnadan. How may I help you?"

"Please ask the Lady Arwen if I may see her." 

Her look guarded and doubtful, she inclined her head in a bow and did not invite him in. "Please wait here, my lord." 

Standing awkwardly in the hallway, he watched as she passed behind a woven cloth that he knew from his visits to this room—a year ago now—covered the entrance to Arwen's bedroom. The tapestry depicted the lavish wedding ceremony of Arwen's parents, Elrond and Celebrían, the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn of Lórien. Its sunny happiness seemed to mock him—or promise? His eyes could see nothing else; his heart battered against his ribs. _She does care, I know it. I felt her in my arms. I want only to love her. I would do nothing to take her away from her chosen life._

After a brief agony of waiting, he saw the maid return. "The lady cannot see you, my lord. She begs you to do as she has asked."

"I wish for only a few minutes."

She stepped into the doorway and stood like a statue of stone, unmovable. "I must ask you to leave, my lord."

He stared at her impassive face for a moment, and then, abandoning all hope, left without a word. 

In the woods above the House, a ledge thrust out from the steep valley walls. He—no, Estel—had discovered it once on a climb, and kept it as a secret place where he could be alone. He went there now. 

The solitude, the far skies, the song of the mountain thrush called out to him, and he poured all his young man's vigor into a fast ascent. The exertion cooled his mind even as it heated his body. Far to the north and south stretched the world outside of the narrow length of the valley, a deep gash in the foothills of the Misty Mountains. Below him, the foamy river curled between its rocky banks, overhung with the lush green that, in Rivendell, colored the chill of winter as well as the summer warmth. 

He thought back to the half-grown boy who had first come to this place: Estel used to gaze into the far horizon where the distant mountains blued the edges of the earth, and wonder what waited in the wide open future, full of possibility. That boy had imagined sailing with Eärendil to new lands across the sea; or taking up the sword of Túrin to slay the dragon Glaurung; or commanding the ships of Elendil on the flight from drowned Númenor to Middle-earth. He had imagined searching for his lost father, who was not dead after all, but the prisoner of an evil lord, who fell to the sword of Estel the Valiant. How proud and happy his father was! 

Later, as he grew, he imagined loving a beautiful woman, who took on many faces before the fair Arwen Undómiel usurped all others. In this very spot he had seen the two mated eagles glorying in their windborne love.

Estel's dreams were long gone. Aragorn's future was constricted to a predetermined path, alone, without the love he desired. The dead father was dead indeed, leaving a son with no memories. The Heir of Isildur had once seemed a grand title, but now it seemed of little worth. "Destiny" was a prison.

_I will never see her again._ What chance did he have of meeting her in Lórien? Not even Elves dared enter the Golden Wood without the express leave of its lord and lady. How could a Man, even the foster son of Elrond, hope to cross its borders? Should he go to him and say, "Master Elrond, please help me gain entry to Lórien so that I may woo your daughter"? His vow to come to her again was empty boasting. _I might as well dare the Girdle of Melian._

Beren had stumbled through mists and nearly died, the tales said. But Beren did not know he would find Lúthien. He did not know the love he would lose if he did not come there. A bitter laugh escaped him. _I as Beren!_ His passion had addled his wits. _But truly she is as beautiful as Lúthien._ Who was Aragorn son of Arathorn to Elrond's daughter? He was a fool to think of it. 

Almost he wished for the old anger and resentment that he had once battled. Under it a futile hope had lurked. He had mistaken her feelings—she felt only a sister's fondness for a brother, perhaps, or a woman's delight in a man's body. She regretted only the pain that she had caused.

A kind of grim desolation bolstered his bleakness. If duty was all he had, then he would give it all he had indeed. 

_I am Estel no longer. Hope is left behind. I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, and I wield a deadly blade._ _Death will claim me soon enough, but I will not go without leaving my mark._


	20. The Scarred Man

Gilraen saw at once that something had happened. The grim unhappiness darkening her son's eyes could only have one cause, and her pity for his broken heart overpowered her disapproval of his imprudent choice. Eventually he would accept how beyond even the Heir of Isildur such a woman was, but the lesson would be painful.

Ivorwen darted one penetrating look at the young man's face and met Gilraen's eyes with a silent meaning.

Aragorn was quiet throughout the evening meal. But as he stood up from his place, he said, "I've decided to leave tomorrow at dawn."

"So soon, Estel?" cried Gilraen.

"I've been here for nearly two weeks. It's past time to return to the Angle, and there are things to be done. Hallor is even now gathering reports from the Rangers."

Dírhael regarded his grandson in silence, a small smile quirking one corner of his lips. Gilraen and Ivorwen exchanged looks.

"You speak with a strange vehemence," Gilraen said. "You make me afraid you'll do something rash and risk your life."

"If risking life is rash, then we are all rash," Aragorn said. "I'm sure my grandparents would acknowledge that, if you have forgotten."

His words hit her like a shock of icy water. "I haven't forgotten. How could I?"

He seemed to realize then what he had said, and reached for her hand and kissed it. "Forgive me, mother. I spoke thoughtlessly. Give me time to see to my affairs. May I speak with you later?"

She nodded, knowing an argument would be futile and unwise. Aragorn strode from the chamber.

Her father sat back in his chair. "He is young, and the young are always in a hurry. I mean to stay another two weeks, and let Hallor wait. But we should let the young one do his own learning."

"It happens that way whether you let them or not," said Ivorwen crisply, "as even I remember."

Dírhael chuckled. "Ah, wife, you were born wise."

Gilraen let their gentle mockery wash over her like a warm bath, and put her fears to rest while she enjoyed their company.

Her son came back soon enough, as she knew he would. His gentle heart would not allow a hurt to fester. When he appeared again in her sitting room, he held out his arm and invited her for an evening walk in the gardens. Gladly she took his arm, thinking what a fine husband he would make some fortunate woman, in some future time when these difficulties lay behind him. "I'm sorry you leave so soon, my son."

"I have a job to do."

She smiled at his earnestness. "I know."

He led her to the rose garden, where the late-blooming flowers perfumed the air. He took her hands. "Please forgive my cruel words earlier. There have been—strains on me. My tongue seems always to say the wrong things."

"Let it go. It will pass, Estel."

He shook his head, and said almost in a whisper, "It doesn't matter now. But I don't wish to speak about it."

_And any number of questions or mother's badgering will not change that. How well I know!_ "But surely, also, there have been some good things? You know your people now, you know more about your father?"

"I've heard many stories about him from the others. But I still have no memories. They are gone forever, I suppose."

"Don't give up yet. You loved him, your father. I remember the last time you were together, he was teaching you to say your name properly. Such a long name for a small boy. You would laugh at how like your names were."

"The name I learned to forget."

"The name we made you forget. It's too late for regrets now, and it had to be so in any case." _Why does it still hurt so much?_ She sighed."Foolish to pine after impossible wishes." 

"So it is." The bitterness in his voice filled her with dismay.

She chose her next words carefully. "Hallor, and my brother and father—all of them praise you; even Ingold, for all his doubts. I'm sure that the problems over that incident with the Orcs"—she shuddered, remembering the tale of Estel's fall and the death of the beloved Brelach—"will pass soon. I heard about Daeron, too. I'm amazed that he is still so bitter and even more that he vents it on you."

"It doesn't surprise me that he regrets his loss," he answered. "Why would I marvel that a man admires my beautiful lady mother?"  


She smiled. "You are a most gallant son. I wonder…." she hesitated, and pressed his strong fingers that held her hands. "Daeron sees in you the son he never had."

He started in surprise. "I never thought of that. It seems rather that he hates me because I am Arathorn's son."

"I don't know, I just wonder. I don't know what you think about this tale, Estel, and perhaps it's best if you don't tell me. But I didn't love him, you know. I thought I did, and from my birth it was my father's wish, but then when Arathorn came I found out love was different."

"And my grandfather changed his mind."

"How could he not? To marry into the Chieftain's family—and Arathorn was the best man in Thurnost."

"The Chieftain's family," he murmured, and his eyes were unreadable.

_Leave it to my son to choose a woman above the House of Elendil._ And suddenly she was weeping, leaning her forehead into her son's chest. "We used to call you 'little king'—Areg, it was. You used to correct me when I slipped, when we first came. 'No, mama, Estel,' you would say. Now I see in your eyes you wish me to call you Aragorn."

He smiled then. "No, 'Estel' is best from those who love me."

"My son, my Estel, take care. Be safe. May the Queen's falcons protect you. Do not stay away too long."

~oOo~

Leaving Rivendell, Aragorn retraced the path on foot he had followed nearly a year before on Brelach's strong back. He carried a heavy leather pack on his back, his green and brown Ranger garb freshly mended and patched by his mother and grandmother, his boots newly resoled and oiled by Rivendell's best shoemaker. He had sharpened and cleaned his weapons and stocked his healer's kit with herbs from Elrond's garden. _No Elven garb this time_. _No heirlooms to carry but the Ring of Barahir on its chain around my neck._ _Narsil is safe in the locked chest at Thurnost._ He liked the steady swing of his own long legs, but the memory of Brelach's joyful canter saddened his way.

Now he knew the way to the Keep well, and turned south after crossing the river to follow the secret path on the western bank. For a man on foot, it was the quickest way. After three days he turned sharply west to the Point, where he expected to find Rangers on patrol. He made the bird call signal as he approached, as he had learned. 

Soon he sighted two figures approaching through the trees: Malbeth and one of the boys, by the look of that lanky, red-haired figure.

"Greetings, Aragorn!" called Malbeth. "Welcome back!" The boy, who had sprung up in height in the seven months since Aragorn had seen him, followed behind, his eyes bright, a hardy bow and quiver slung on his back. The dogs trotted beside Malbeth, until, at a sign from their master releasing them from his side, they raced ahead to jump up on Aragorn and lick his face.

"Well met, Malbeth!" he called, laughing as the wet tongues washed his beard. He rumpled the dogs' ears and reached out to clasp his comrades' arms in welcome. "A better greeting than the first, I think."

Malbeth grinned. "At least Damrod will not be threatening to shoot you. He's gone south."

Aragorn turned his eyes to the boy. "You've sprouted like a young tree—and I have to admit I am not at all sure which one you are."

"Rodnor," said Rodnor, grinning foolishly. The wisp of beard on his lip had darkened, and sprouts had appeared on his chin. Aragorn smiled to himself, remembering his distress when his own dark brown beard had begun to grow—in the beardless Elven haven of Rivendell.

Soon they were moving together toward the Point, where Goenor was manning the lookout. He descended the hill to greet the newcomer.

"Where is Hawk?" asked Aragorn, expecting to see the captain in command as usual.

"He's at the Keep," Goenor answered, leaning on his heavy oak staff. "Hallor went to Weathertop, and called on Beleg to look after things in his absence. But Beleg suffered a fit just three days ago." He shook his head. "He is recovered now, and it was nothing more than what he has suffered before, since that wound in Mirkwood all those years ago. But Hawk thought it best to join him at the Keep."

Aragorn nodded. "Otherwise, all is well?"

"It has been hard, Aragorn. You heard the news of Saelind's death?"

"Yes. Not unexpected, but it grieved me all the same."

"Her time had come. She was the oldest of us all. We lost Rotheniel and Dorlas too—the winter is hard on the old. But just two weeks ago two children died of the coughing fever."

"Who?" he cried.

Goenor thrust his bearlike arms out in a gesture of sorrow. "Ingold's great-grandchildren. He does not yet even know of it. Fortunately, no others fell ill."

Aragorn sighed. _Could I have saved them if I had been here, with a skilled power?_ "It's a sore blow—for us all, and he most of all."

"Yes, and the rumors from the wild increase as well. You must know more than I do about the news from Thranduil."

"I have heard as much as Rivendell knows. Elladan and Elrohir are going to Mirkwood to assist. Soon we should know more. They mean to come here on their return."

"Well, isn't that friendly?" said Goenor. "I gather Hallor had a good talk with Elrond, and now we are on a better footing with Rivendell."

"Perhaps it would be truer to put it the other way around," Aragorn said.

Goenor barked out one of his great shouts of laughter. "Fair enough. For me, I am willing to forgive Elrond for the past, but I will not forget it. You, now—you've shed some of the Elf, I see."

"I will understand that as praise, coming from you," Aragorn said with a smile. 

Aragorn did not tarry, but soon bid them farewell and continued on his way. He had not gone far when the _kee kee kee_ of the Queen's falcons pierced the air. Their effortless, swift flight in the clear sky brought a joy to his heart beyond the appreciation of their beauty. The guardians of Númenor in exile brought hope. _As hard as the blows fall, how much worse off would we be without their watchful eyes seeking out the spies of the Enemy._

But as he approached the Keep, anxiety surged within him. _What is this foolish fancy?_ he chastised himself. _As tense as the Keep can be, it does not warrant a girlish fright. I must learn to control these moods and the brooding that distract me from my duty._

As if to second this reassurance, the people of the Keep greeted him with joy. Ríannon, enveloped as usual in a vast apron, showered him with hugs, seated him in the kitchen and served him a hearty meal of freshly baked bread and thick stew, made from the summer's lambs. She plumbed him for news as he ate. Fíriel lingered, smiling happily, looking for any opportunity to serve him. Lalaith, her ginger hair in long braids, wanted to sit in his lap. Dírgon was crawling around on the floor, digging into everything his chubby fingers could grasp. Exasperated, Ríannon placed sacks of apples in a circle against the wall, and set her son within the space with wooden spoons for toys. 

The children's stormy energy astonished him. "Do they always grow this fast?" 

A merry laugh escaped their mother. "Oh, yes. And they are always this much work. You were always into mischief." Her eyes sparkled.

"You are not that much older than I, to remember that." 

She shrugged. "I am a good ten years older than you. I looked after the children as a girl, as the older girls do now, when the women are busy. You were so active and inquisitive that we had one minder just for you. How I wish I had one now for this one! But the girls are all busy with the harvest."

Hawk found him just finishing his meal in the kitchen, and called him to a meeting in the map room. "Urgent matters to discuss, Aragorn. I am glad you are here."

Aragorn followed his upright, strong figure through the halls of the Commons to the Rangers' meeting room. Forbidding and silent, Daeron stood at the door, waiting. They exchanged cool greetings, and Beleg came hurriedly into the room, stumbling across the threshold.

Daeron held out his hands to steady him, and Aragorn caught a glance of concern on his face. _The man is not as cold as he likes to appear, to care for Beleg, the old comrade of my father, his rival._

But Beleg turned to Aragorn with a warm embrace. "All Thurnost rejoices when the Heir has returned.

"Many thanks," Aragorn murmured, feeling awkward under the gaze of the man's bright eyes. 

Hawk spread out a map of the Weather Hills. "The news from Hallor is not good. His men have seen wolves north of the Weather Hills, and more signs of trolls. No actual sightings, but the debris of their bloody killing. Truly, Mordor is on the move. We must take heed that Angmar does not again become a threat. The Ringwraiths are now in Mirkwood; may not one also return to the North?"

"So Elrond wonders as well," Aragorn said.

"Before winter sets in, the Rangers at Weathertop will venture east toward the Ettenmoors to hunt Trolls. But it is deadly and exhausting work, and we will send a relief patrol in spring."

"I will go," Aragorn said. "I wish at the least to avenge my grandfather."

A feral gleam lit Hawk's eyes. "You have much company in that desire. We will have no trouble manning our patrol. Goenor will go, and he is our best man on Trolls."

"And remembers all too well Arador's death," Beleg said. "I was there as well, but have no memories."

"Well, this time we will make them pay, and set back Sauron's forces, at least a little," said Hawk.

Daeron curtly nodded. "We are an island in a sea of evil," he said morosely. He avoided Aragorn's eye.

"But not alone," Aragorn said.

Daeron snorted, his eyes unfriendly. "You count on aid from Rivendell? A fool's hope, as befits your name."

Hawk frowned at him. "Keep a civil tongue, man," he said curtly.

Gritting his teeth, Aragorn himself said nothing. His thoughts turned to his mother's words and the light of warmth in Daeron's eyes as Beleg faltered. _Truly, my very existence must be for him like salt in a wound._ He must learn to pity Daeron, and Daeron to see him as other than Arathorn's son. 

He knew one sure way to prove his manhood before another, and defend his honor as well as Elrond's. As swordsmen he and Daeron could meet man to man and leave the past behind. And if he refused the challenge—well, that too would set Aragorn higher in the esteem of men.

And so, later, as the men went their separate ways, Aragorn called out to Daeron. "I'm weary of sparring with words. Shall we try each other's skill at arms?"

To his surprise, the man met his eyes and smiled. "Name the time and place."   


_Perhaps he just needs some help to get out of his rut_. "Tomorrow at dawn on the ramparts."

"Done," said Daeron. "Till then." He walked briskly away, joining Beleg on the path toward their dwellings.

That night the dream came again. _Brelach's scream, the wings of terror beating at his head, the swing of the Orc's bloody club, the horse's dull, agonized eyes before Goenor put him down._ Aragorn woke sweating and threw off the blankets that seemed to bind him like ropes. He strode to the window and looked out to see that the sun's glimmer already streaked the sky beyond the walls of the Keep.

He had not told anyone about the sparring match. He did not want an audience; this matter was between him and Daeron alone. He washed and dressed quickly, girding on his sword belt with Morchamion slung in its scabbard. He liked to warm up with his own sword, switching to practice arms only for the bout itself. He pulled on leather gloves and vambraces, and went down the outside steps of the Commons leading to the winding tower stairs up to the ramparts. The cool air promised a fair autumn, and now that he had shaken off the bad dream, he rejoiced in the day and his own strength. Here among the Dúnedain lay his duty, here lay his life's work. He would find a way to tame this man's anger and earn his respect.

On the ramparts at the top of the tower a wide archway opened to a deep alcove with three huge, locked, iron-bound doors in the far wall, each leading to a store of arms and training gear. Each room was carved into the cold, black rock of the mountain of rock that formed the ramparts walls. Aragorn unlocked and flung open the middle door to the supply room where the training gear was stored. Practice arms made of thick wood weighted with iron lined the room—spears, axes, sword-like sticks, staves, knives. Some were of blunt-edged metal. Wooden chests held tough, padded tunics and leggings to be worn for protection. The Keep had a strict rule: no arms practice without the greatest precaution against injury. The Dúnedain could not afford to lose a man to that kind of needless risk.

Daeron was a fine swordsman. Aragorn's greater height gave him a longer reach, but Daeron's nimble footwork and skilled turns of the wrist would compensate for that. Aragorn meant to give him his best in the bout.

He picked out a selection of well-crafted wooden swords, as well as ones of blunted steel, and a couple of padded tunics, and set them against the outside wall before starting his warm-up. He began by standing in a tall stance, feet braced apart, arms spread at his side with palms facing forward, eyes closed, breathing slowed. This Elven technique to improve the mind's command of the body was the best way he knew to bring any distressing emotion under control. _Balance. Breathe. Command._ Then, when he had found his center, he drew Morchamion and began a series of swings and lunges with the bright Elven blade. 

As he was nearing the end, Daeron's footsteps echoed in the stone tunnel.

Aragorn lowered his sword and greeted his opponent with a bow. "Shall we spar with wood or blunt steel?" 

"I've been thinking on that." Daeron slowly drew his own Dwarven-forged steel blade from its well-oiled scabbard. He held it up and considered the edge in the morning light. "What's your preference?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Either. We may draw for the choice if you like." 

Daeron turned to face him. He held his blade out, the wicked point gleaming. "I like best the feel of my own blade in my hand." 

"As any man would." Aragorn turned away and moved to sheathe Morchamion. He froze as he felt Daeron's sword tip press against his back.

"Rule one," said Daeron softly. "Never turn your back on an armed opponent."

Alarm chilled Aragorn's heart. "I yield you first point. And you choose our weapons."

"Oh, I have," Daeron said. "I would not put that fine sword away if I were you."

Aragorn did not stir. "Rule two. Never risk your blade or your life in a practice fight."

The point of Daeron's sword scratched at his tunic as the man moved it slowly against his back. "This is no practice. Face me or I will spit you like a pig."

Aragorn slowly and deliberately swiveled and moved back, lifting Morchamion in a guarding stance, the flat turned toward Daeron. "This is too serious for a dare, Daeron." 

"This is no dare." The man's face contorted, his bad eye gleaming. He attacked.

Aragorn countered him. Still he could not believe the man meant to fight with sharp steel. Beyond his vambraces and gloves Aragorn had not yet donned any mail or protective clothing against the keen and lethal swords. Daeron, however, wore an iron-studded leather jerkin.

Aragorn moved back again. The odd intensity gleaming in the man's eyes unsettled him. "Enough. You have made your point. I do not wish to hurt you."

"I'm going to kill you," Daeron said.

Aragorn parried two more attacks, aiming to disarm but not wound, to end the matter without injury.

Daeron pulled back from the assault and they circled. "Why don't you kill me?" Daeron sneered. "You need to, don't you. You want to. You've never killed a Man, have you, son of Arathorn? They die as easily as Orcs."

Keeping a focused silence, Aragorn watched Daeron's moves. The man was mad.

"You can't rule Men if you can't kill one," Daeron said. "Kill me. Arathorn tried to, once. See this eye? He did it."

Aragorn heard the words, but shut out any reaction to them. Daeron's sword slashed out and he felt a searing fire down his side as the blade point parted his flesh. Ignoring the pain, he lunged in a downward swing, laying open Daeron's right arm near the shoulder. The man's sword flew out of his grasp and Aragorn swung his back leg forward to aim a swift kick at his belly. Convulsing, Daeron collapsed onto the hard rocky floor and lay still. 

_Kill him. Kill him. Kill him,_ an inner voice whispered in command. Aragorn leaped to Daeron's side and raised his sword to plunge the tip through the man's heart. And he froze. With a cry he threw the sword down and fell to his knees, holding his arm to his wounded side. As blood drenched his tunic, he felt faint with horror and pain.

Shouts and the sound of pounding feet had already broken out below, and Hawk burst onto the floor, shouting, "What's going on here?" Beleg followed, his face set in a fierce grimace.

Hawk came at once to Aragorn's side. "Keep still. It may bleed less that way." His eyes hard and angry, he grabbed a padded tunic and pressed it over the wound. "What happened?"

Aragorn gritted his teeth against the pain. "We planned to spar, and he attacked me with his naked blade."

Hawk's fierce eyes could have stood down an army of Orcs. "This is not your doing?" 

"I am no murderer, Hawk," said Aragorn. "He is mad."

"Or a traitor," said Beleg harshly, as he stood over Daeron's unconscious body.

The pain of the wound increased with every breath. The last thing Aragorn remembered was Hawk calling Beleg to his side.


	21. Chieftain's Justice

Aragorn woke in his own bed, gasping from the agony of fingers probing the wound in his side. Idhril bent over him, her intent eyes scanning his face.

He tried to smile. "Once again I am your patient."

"Be still. The wound is long, scoring into the muscle. A little lower and deeper and it would have spilled your guts." 

He held his breath while she pressed a thick cloth to the still-bleeding cut. Her face contracted in worry. "This wound is in just the place that you injured when you fell last fall. Most unfortunate."

Wincing, he suppressed a groan. "Is that why it hurts so much?" __

"Hush." Her fingers resumed their painful probing. At last she sat back. "I see no bone, and the muscle has not been cut as much as I feared. The ribs may be bruised again, but tight binding will aid that."

Aragorn gritted his teeth through the pain of the cleaning and stitching, but tears would water his eyes against the sharp rawness of the new wound. 

Idhril poured hot water over herbs in a cup. "Sleep is what you need." 

Aragorn eyed the cup with alarm. "I do not need the potion."

"Yes, you do." She held the cup to his lips. "Why is it that you brave men battle Orcs and Trolls but can't stand the taste of a little medicine?"

Dutifully, he drank the horrible stuff and then lay back, running his tongue around his mouth and swallowing to banish all traces of the taste. 

Idhril rose from her bench. "Fíriel will watch you." 

The girl appeared as if out of nowhere, her shy eyes big with responsibility.

Aragorn tried to lift his hand. "Wait—before you go, tell me of Daeron. How is he?" 

"Better than he should be." Idhril grimaced with dislike. "The wound to the arm is deep, but it will heal. More serious is that he struck his head against the floor and lost consciousness. Now he says he does not remember what happened. He was astonished when we told him he had tried to kill the Heir of Isildur—or he pretended to be."

"He was like a man possessed. He wanted the death of one of us."

"He will answer for what he has done."

"Where is he?" 

"In the lockup. We are treating his injuries as well as we can. When Hallor returns, the captains will decide what punishment he deserves." She turned to Fíriel. "I'll be back in the afternoon. Watch him close till then, and call for me if there is any change."

Fíriel stoked the fire and settled in a chair with her spinning. Closing his eyes, Aragorn turned his face to the wall. The wound burned like fire, but the memory of his rage against Daeron burned yet more fiercely. __I_ _would_ _have_ _killed_ _him_._

_… _The_ _voice_ _rang_ _in_ _his_ _dreams_. " _Have_ _you_ _ever_ _killed_ _a_ _Man_ , _son_ _of_ _Arathorn_? _They_ _die_ _as_ _easily_ _as_ _Orcs_." _He_ _plunged_ _his_ _sword_ _through_ _Daeron's_ _chest_ _and_ _throat_. _The_ _man's_ _dying_ _mouth_ _gaped_ _like_ _a_ _fish's_ _as_ _he_ _drowned_ _in_ _his_ _blood_._

__Sticky_ _gore_ _covered_ _his_ _assassin's_ _hands_. _Elrond_ _stood_ _before_ _him_ , _unyielding_ , _the_ _Elven_ _light_ _in_ _his_ _eyes_ _like_ _a_ _god's_. _He_ _raised_ _his_ _hand_ _in_ _accusation_. " _My_ _son_ _has_ _used_ _my_ _gift_ _to_ _murder_! _The_ _sword_ , _the_ _Black_ _Hand_ , _is_ _now_ _black_ _with_ _evil_. _He_ _is_ _Estel_ _no_ _more_."_

__Banished_ _from_ _Rivendell_ , _he_ _hunted_ _Orcs_ , _but_ _the_ _monsters_ _turned_ _into_ _Men_ _at_ _a_ _cut_ _from_ _his_ _blade_. _The_ _wide_ _sky_ _wheeled_ _and_ _the_ _stars_ _turned_. _Barad_ - _dûr_ _rose_ _above_ _the_ _plains_ _of_ _Mordor_. _Gil_ - _galad_ _and_ _Elendil_ _called_ _the_ _vanguard_ _to_ _the_ _last_ _defenses_ ; _Narsil_ _flashed_ _like_ _a_ _cold_ _flame_. _King_ _Elendil_ _fell_ , _shattering_ _the_ _blade_ _beneath_ _him_. _The_ _sky_ _spun_ , _the_ _stars_ _turned_. _Another_ _man_ _stood_ _before_ _the_ _Black_ _Gate_ , _holding_ _the_ _blade_ _remade_ , _glowing_ _with_ _the_ _light_ _of_ _the_ _sun_ _and_ _the_ _moon_. _He_ _died_ …._

With the dreams again came fever, and Idhril dismissed Fíriel to take the watch herself, sternly dispensing potions when Aragorn waked. For three days he wandered the paths of the fever dreams, weeping with loss and rage. Whenever he woke, either Idhril or Fíriel gave him draughts and soothed his heated skin with cool, wet cloths. 

~oOo~

On the third morning he woke to a clear head and rose from bed to sit in a chair in the solar. He breathed deeply of the soft late summer air. The rich smell of baking bread wafted from the ovens in the Great Hall. Through the window he could see the stables and the horses in the paddock. He thought of Brelach, his grief renewed, and wondered.

That afternoon Beleg came to him. "Again you frighten us, Aragorn." 

Aragorn snorted softly. "It's not my intention. But I am recovering fast. Have you seen Daeron?"

"Every day."

"Does he remember now?"

"He says not. Indeed, he feigns great distress on the matter."

"Feigns—or truly cannot remember?"

Beleg shrugged. "He made no secret of his resentment from the day you came here. We've all seen it, and how little it becomes him. He will kill the Heir of Isildur for an old quarrel over a mere woman? I do not forget how he tried to kill my friend for the same."

"This 'mere woman' is my mother," said Aragorn through clenched teeth.

"Ah, I am sorry. I meant no disrespect."

__Then_ _mind_ _your_ _heedless_ _tongue_. _ Aragorn frowned, thinking back on Daeron's words. "You are saying now that Daeron tried to kill Arathorn? But no one has said that before. He claimed, rather, that Arathorn tried to kill him."

"That is a lie."

"Were you present? Did you see this fight? Was death the intent?"

"I was there, yes. When men take up swords, what else do they intend but death?"

"In such a match, they intend to show their skill in besting the other—at least I do. I had understood his fight with Arathorn as the same—in bitterness, yes, and no doubt with intent to shame him. But no worse."

Underneath his elegant brows, Beleg's bright eyes glittered with dislike. "I have always thought worse. He intended murder."

Aragorn frowned. "You say one thing, then another. Which is it? Why wasn't Daeron punished?"

The light in Beleg's eyes suddenly collapsed, as a fire extinguished with a spray of water. He shrugged. "Ah, what am I saying? Pardon me, I am not myself today. After all, Daeron lost his eye. Arathorn would not have him punished. Besides, no one thought he meant murder." He lowered his head; deep sorrow darkened his face and softened his voice. "I lost a wife, too—her death in childbirth, with our little son. There isn't a day when I don't think of them. But I try to keep it from poisoning my life. Now Daeron has ruined his. He will pay for what he has done."

"I am so sorry, Beleg," Aragorn whispered. The light of the day dimmed as a cloud passed over the sun.

~oOo~

By the time Ivorwen, Dírhael and Hallor returned to the Keep, Aragorn's wound had healed enough that he was helping Idhril in the healer's cottage, culling herbs, mixing ointments and powders, and attending on the various ills and accidents of the people of the Keep. Upon hearing the tale of Daeron's attack on her grandson, Ivorwen wept with distress, but soon she busied herself with her tasks as Warden of the Commons. Dírhael's deadly calm and Hallor's explosive fury seemed to Aragorn the opposite of what he would have expected from each man. 

The next day, Hallor and Hawk called him to the map room. Hawk paced before the hearth; Hallor's pipe glowed as he drew vigorous puffs, slouched in his deep chair, eyes half-closed. "Tell us this tale again. I feel at last I have the presence of mind to listen without flying into a rage."

Aragorn again recounted the story, keeping as well as he could to a dispassionate tone. Afterward Hallor was silent for a long time, packing, lighting, and smoking his pipe, while Hawk continued pacing, his hands clutched behind his back. Finally Hallor roused. "In three days' time, I will call a moot for judgment. This matter must not poison the air of the Keep any longer. I am going to test Daeron's memory by prompting him with a false tale. We have told him nothing of what happened. We will see what is revealed, and judge accordingly."

"What is the punishment for this crime?"

"Attempted murder of the Heir of Isildur? Hanging, of course."

"No, I will not have it."

Hallor opened his eyes wide in surprise. "What do you mean? What else did you expect?"

"It was no assassin's act, but a sword fight—on my challenge, I would remind you."

Hawk slammed his hand down on the table so hard that Aragorn was sure it hurt. "And then he turned it into an assassin's act. Whether he remembers or not, that is what he did."

"The loss of memory may belie a murderer's intent. It could be a sickness of the mind."

Hallor sighed. "This is a difficult matter. If I'm convinced that he doesn't remember, and can't therefore answer for himself, I would consider exile from Thurnost. I have no wish to hang the man. For all his bitterness, he is a good Ranger. He has served our people well. And we can ill afford the loss of a man."

Hawk said darkly, "We certainly cannot afford the loss of Aragorn."

Troubled, Aragorn shifted restlessly on his feet. "Have you considered the possibility that my memory is faulty? That some other thing may be at work?"

Hallor's eyes hardened and chilled. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it must be said. I nearly killed him, Hallor. I barely stopped myself."

Hallor's smile was bitter. "A natural reaction in the heat of the moment. What man has not felt that after such a wound, and such taunting?" 

"And something happened to me last fall that we still cannot explain."

"And what am I to make of that, Aragorn? What would you have me do?"

"I do not know. If he has no memory, if he is ill, how can we send him into the wild? And if he is dissembling, if he planned all along to injure or kill me, it's the same question: how can we send him into the wild—we, whose task it is to protect the people?"

"Exile or death, those are the choices, Aragorn," said Hallor. "If we do not banish him, we must hang him. We have no means to hold a traitor or a madman. As for protecting the people, we must look to ourselves first. We cannot have an untrustworthy man—for whatever reason—in our midst. It would rob us of all effectiveness."

"I believe a fit took him," Hawk said. "But who's to say what caused it, whether it be bitter hate or madness? What's to prevent it happening again? We can't lock him up; we have no men to guard him. As for you—" Hawk swung around and looked straight in Aragorn's eyes. "You must tell us. Will you vouch for your truth? Or will you force us to doubt you?"

Aragorn met his eyes. "I speak the truth about this matter. I do not know the truth about the other."

"Then do not raise the other," Hallor snapped. "There is already enough talk—yes, there is more talk. Daeron is a surly fellow, but he is well respected by the Rangers. He is known as a brave and loyal man in a tough spot. We must not feed idle talk."

Anger stirred in Aragorn's heart, but he stopped his tongue. 

Hallor tapped his hand with the bowl of his pipe. "As for sending him alone into the wild, I agree that we cannot do that. I do not think he is a traitor, but if I am wrong—he knows too much to be cast out. I would consider exile to the Grey Mountains, or some other remote post."

Hawk barked a harsh laugh. "You will burden Túrin with Daeron? Not a bad idea. He is ruthless enough for this challenge. He will not hesitate to put him to death at the slightest provocation."

"No question about that."

"Have I met Túrin?" Aragorn asked.

"You would remember him if you had. He is a bear of a man, hard as a rock, and a savage at heart. Like a hero of old, as befits his name."

"That would answer, if you must seek exile. I, for one, will not agree to a hanging."

"Are you always so forgiving of those who seek your death, Aragorn?"

"There is something here we do not understand. We can't take a man's life when there is such doubt."

"At the least, shouldn't you wait to hear what he says before you speak so firmly?"

"I heard him that day, Hallor. What could he say worse?"

"The judgment must be put before the moot. Twenty men are needed for such a case." 

"There is one thing more," Aragorn said. "I would like to examine him as a healer before this is decided."

Hallor plucked his pipe from his mouth. "Out of the question. It would be very unwise for you to meet at all until after the judgment. But if you think you can get his cooperation, I will consider it then. Although I would ask, why do you wish to?"

"I owe it to him because of the scar he bears, that's my father's doing. And for my mother's sake." __And_ _because_ _of_ _the_ _shame_ _that_ _grips_ _me_ , _remembering_ _the_ _terrible_ _moment_ _when_ _I_ _wanted_ _to_ _kill_ _him_._ "I have some small skill with Elven healing, very little it is true, but it may be enough to help him, or at the least to judge his truth. Then, at least, he will be of more use at his post. As it is, Idhril tells me that he suffers from severe headaches and black spells. Elven healing can help this."

Hallor drummed his fingers on the table, regarding Aragorn with a thoughtful, steady gaze. "All right. You may ask him. And we will see."

~oOo~

To set up the Great Hall for trial, a long table was placed on the dais, with a space before for the prisoner. Benches were lined up for the moot: the harbor master, the master of horse, farmers and craftsmen of Thurnost and the lands around—all sat grave and silent. Others gathered behind them in silent rows; men at arms stood against the walls and at the doors. 

Hallor, Hawk and Ingold, newly returned to the Keep, presided at the head table; Aragorn, Beleg, Dírhael and Ivorwen sat behind the moot on the last bench. The doors opened, revealing Daeron, in chains, escorted by two armed guards. The guards brought the prisoner to the space before the judges and unchained him. But they stood behind him, swords drawn and at the ready.

Haggard and pale, Daeron kept his eyes focused on the floor. His arm was bound and set in a sling. The sight of that defeated face moved Aragorn to pity.

"Daeron son of Galdor," Hallor's voice rang out at its most commanding. "You stand here to face your judgment for your grave misdeed. The moot will hear your case and judge according to the laws of Númenor in these lands of exile. In Númenor of old such was the peace and prosperity of that beautiful land that there was little cause for judgment or punishment. But here, in Middle-earth, the laws of our people are harsh—of necessity. You are charged with drawing arms with intent to kill Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Heir of Isildur and by birth our chieftain. Therefore your assault is also treason. What do you answer?"

Daeron licked his lips and swallowed several times before speaking in a low, rough, guttural voice: "I am no traitor."

Hallor's voice rolled out, steady and full of authority. "Did you not attack Aragorn when he carried no sword to defend himself?"

"I do not remember."

"You lie. You jumped Aragorn from behind and tried to stab him in the back."

Daeron seemed to slouch sideways, as if to fall, when the guard on his uninjured side seized his arm and hauled him up to stand. Shaking, he spoke so low that no one could hear.

"Answer me," Hallor commanded.

"Then I deserve death," Daeron croaked.

"You sought to murder the rightful king of Arnor. Are you in the pay of Mordor?"

Daeron raised his chin. "No!"

"Why else would you commit this terrible crime? Why would you strike and wound your lord?"  
  


"I don't know," Daeron whispered.

"I do know. I say that you are a bitter man, driven by hate to attempt murder—a crime that deserves hanging or exile."

Daeron turned ashen grey.

Hallor's eyes never left him as the heavy silence dragged on. At last he beckoned to Aragorn, and Hawk and Ingold as the judges, and, drawing them aside, spoke low. "What do you think?"

"You know my mind on this," said Aragorn. "Perhaps I am misled by my own wishes, but I believe him."

Ingold nodded. "Either he is a very good dissembler or he is telling the truth. And whatever else the man is, I have never known him for a liar. A bully, a surly man—yes, but I always rather wished he would make a pretense of civility."

"I cede to your judgment, Hallor," said Hawk.

They returned to their places, Hallor standing at the table. "Daeron, we question if your claim of no memory is real or not. Aragorn will tell how this evil deed happened."

Aragorn stood before the judges' table and looked steadily at Daeron, but the man avoided his eyes. He told the story, sparing no truth, even of his own near strike at Daeron's life. He watched the man carefully for signs of regret, or of memory, old or resurfaced. Daeron's expression grew more wretched, and his already pale cheeks sank into a ghostly whiteness, as the story progressed. __No_ , _this_ _man_ _remembers_ _nothing__. __I_ _will_ _help_ _him_ , _if_ _I_ _can_._ "You sought my death, but I do not know why. Can you answer?"

"I am no traitor," Daeron whispered. 

The three judges consulted before Hallor again took command of the proceedings. He turned to the men of the moot. "It is for you twenty to vote and decide: shall Daeron be punished for this deed? Upon your judgment, I will pronounce the punishment, if there is to be one."

Each man had two small stones: one black, one white. In silence, they cast their votes: eighteen for punishment, two for acquittal.

__Two_ _at_ _least_ _question_ _my_ _words_ ,_ Aragorn thought. He strove for an impassive expression.

Hallor raised his eyes to Daeron. "The moot declares you are to be punished. Therefore, for this deed, Daeron son of Galdor, I banish you for life from Thurnost and all lands of the Angle. We will allow your wound to heal, but then you must at once leave the Keep. You are exiled to the Ranger post at the Grey Mountains. There you may redeem some honor, if you yet have honor remaining in your heart. If you betray or disobey any order given to you by your captain, you will be put to death."

Daeron's head drooped still lower. "It is only what I deserve." 

The grave eyes of the silent witnesses followed him as the guards shackled him and led him from the Hall.

~oOo~

"Do you still wish to examine him?" asked Hallor.

Aragorn ran his fingers through his hair. "More than ever. I do not trust how any of this seems."

"It would look well, with those two votes for his innocence. I did not like that."

"It's not that at all," Aragorn said. "Elrond taught me to never withhold treatment when it may be of some good. In this case, I believe it's my duty to try."

"Tomorrow morning, then," Hallor said. "Hawk will go with you."

Elven healing required rigorous preparation, beginning with a clean body and a clear mind. The next morning, after a soak in the bathhouse, Aragorn dressed and began his breathing and centering exercises, reaching into his own mind for the pathways that carried the power. When Elrond had taught him, he had said, "Until you reach your full power, you may still be able to bring aid to some, and it is your duty to try. Beware of pushing yourself too far. The power will never harm the patient, but an untrained power can be deadly to the healer." Aragorn only hoped that he could bring some healing to Daeron.

In the dark, chilly lockup, reached by tunnels through the black rock of the Keep's walls, Daeron was seated on his cot, head bowed. A small brazier stood outside the barred door, providing some warmth.

When Aragorn caught Daeron's eye, alarmed suffused his face, and he lurched to his feet. 

Hawk unlocked the door and Aragorn entered, to stand before the prisoner. "I have some skill with Elven healing, taught to me by Elrond. It might help you. I can't promise that I will succeed, but I cannot do you any harm, that is sure."

Despair, hope, surprise, suspicion—all warred in Daeron's face. "Why?"

"Because I may be able to ease your condition, if you're willing. I can promise nothing, but I judge it worthy of a try."

"Why would you want to help me, who tried to kill you?"

The man's bleak despair convinced Aragorn even further that he truly did not remember. What lay hidden in those buried memories? "Will you accept it if I say it's not for your sake, but because of a promise I made to Elrond?"

Daeron kept to a long silence. Aragorn waited. Hawk stood outside the gate, watching Daeron closely.

"All right," Daeron finally said. "But only for this: I will not ask your forgiveness, because what I did is unforgivable. I ask only that you accept my horror at my own deed. I don't understand what happened. Whatever else I am, I am no traitor, Aragorn."

"I believe you," Aragorn said.

They went to the healer's cottage for the examination. Aragorn had Daeron lie down on a low couch, and he sat on a stool beside the bed. "Close your eyes." 

First he crushed leaves of __athelas__ into a steaming bowl of water, and allowed the wholesome scent to sweeten the air. He felt its strength in his body and mind, and watched while Daeron's breathing softened. Then, gently, he took Daeron's rough, callused hands in his own. Aragorn spoke the Quenya words that Elrond had taught him, and held Daeron's hands in a firm grip till he felt the tension leave his long, nervous fingers. The pathways indeed were open, and he recognized some power there, hoping fervently that it was enough. But nothing seemed to happen. In despair, he concentrated with all his will. __At_ _least_ _I_ _sense_ _no_ _evil_._

At last he released his hold. "You may open your eyes." 

Daeron's grey eyes held surprise, relief. "What happened?"

Smiling, Aragorn shook his head. "I hardly know. Perhaps nothing. Has the pain gone?"

"Not gone," Daeron answered. "But less. And somehow, I feel cleaner, if that makes any sense."

"That is good."

"Will my memory return?" Daeron asked.

"I don't know." He stood up. "Stay here and rest. The __athelas__ will bring more benefit if you continue to breathe the scent."

"Thank you," Daeron said. 

Aragorn smiled and bowed his head. He left the room, determined not to let the man see his sudden exhaustion. He went to his room, collapsed onto the bed, and slept for a long, long time.


	22. Trolls

Halbarad crept on stealthy Ranger's feet into the healer's cottage and wrapped his arms around his sister, whose eyes were fixed on a glistening mass in a small bowl. With a squeak she dropped her spoon, twisted around and threw her arms about his neck. "Halbarad! Where have you been?"

He kissed her. "As if that were a secret. The Weather Hills, of course."

"I expected you a month ago."

"Foolish you! Can a Ranger keep to a schedule? But I came first thing to see you."

"Not first thing—by the scent of soap, you've been in the baths first."

"How else can I surprise you?" He grinned. "You'd know me by my rank smell." 

"And not allow you in, tracking your dirt," she laughed. "Oh, but I am glad to see you! Come, sit down, and talk to me while I mix this salve."

He ladled out a hot mug of broth from the hearth pot and sat on an old wooden bench against the wall. Closing his eyes, he breathed in the steam from the mug, warm between his chapped hands. "Your broth is as good as a week's sleep, Idhril."

She cast a quick eye of concern at him. "You will rest before returning to the Wild?"

He nodded. "Yes. The plan is for a Troll hunt in the spring east of the Weather Hills. I'll go, of course, and we'll bring animals and supplies from here. We won't leave till February or March."

"A Troll hunt." She shuddered. "Father warned me as much, but still it dismays me."

"Grim business, yes." Halbarad drank deeply from his mug. "I was told I could find Aragorn here in the cottage."

"He is gathering _athelas_ —he found a new patch in the woods. He says we cannot have too much."

"How is he?"

"Tired. He strained himself too much, helping Daeron." She shook her head. "That was a bad business, Halbarad."

"I would have strangled Daeron with my own hands."

"It's well, then, that the man is long gone, or we would be trying you for murder." Her lopsided, regretful smile showed her anger and sorrow. "Truly, I do not know what to think of it all. Aragorn is convinced his memory loss is real. And our father is right that putting Daeron to death would bring far more darkness to the Dúnedain, never mind our need for more men." 

"Aragorn is too good. I could kick myself for letting him out of my sight. He needs me to watch his back."

Idhril's eyes twinkled. "He seems to have managed all right without you, brother dear. From what I hear, Daeron was on the ground within minutes."

"That's not what I mean." Unsure himself, he shrugged, thinking back on the last time he had seen Aragorn: at his departure from the Weather Hills to Rivendell. His subdued, determined mood had filled Halbarad with an indefinable apprehension. _I am the king's man._ "He just needs me."

Idhril shook her head. "It is a shock and a shame that even two men would vote to acquit Daeron. You heard about that, I suppose?"

Halbarad set his teeth. "Yes."

"They still mutter about evil spells and Elves and sorcery, but no one will say it up front. I do not like it. What are we, Dúnedain or savages?"

"Dark times." Halbarad stared into his nearly empty cup. "Dark times." __

Footsteps sounded on the flagstones outside, and the door opened. Aragorn carried a small pouch slung from his shoulder. His face broke into the rare smile of incandescence that Halbarad had come to know, but saw too seldom.

Laughing, they embraced before Halbarad stood back, holding Aragorn at arm's length. "You look well enough. I was afraid I would find you in several pieces."

"I am fine. I loll in sloth, while you wander the Wild."

But Halbarad saw the weariness in his eyes. "I think you need lessons in proper sloth. It's a skill I've mastered."

Aragorn gripped his arm, and turned toward Idhril, who stood watching them with a satisfied smile. "I found a good dozen strong leaves, near the old king's crossing. There will be more come spring."

She held out her hands. "Give them to me, I will dry them. The two of you, go. Do some lolling."

Halbarad winked at her. "It's the first step in preparing our task. Goenor, our master Troll hunter, says so."

"Oh, really?" Smiling, Aragorn passed his pouch to Idhril. "Thank you, mistress healer. Now then, Halbarad, instruct me in this important skill."

Halbarad took him to a secluded corner of the Keep where wild roses grew over an abandoned shed. The last of the summer blooms clung to the vines, and inside into the shelter of the old walls, sunlight flickered through the brambles. "One of my favorite hideouts as a boy," Halbarad said, stretching out on the dry grass. "Now we can talk. How was your visit in Rivendell?"

Aragorn lay down beside him. "Good. My mother is well, and happy to have her family together."

"And?"

"It is as always. Rivendell does not change. I don't think I will be going back soon. This is my place."

Halbarad snorted. "You would think there would be more appreciation of that in the Keep."

"Never mind."

Halbarad stuck a twig between his teeth. "I do mind."

"Let me prove myself, for my own sake."

His tone was too grim for Halbarad's liking, but he decided not to remark on it. "We will soon have ample opportunity for that."

"Yes, to my great satisfaction." He turned his head and met Halbarad's eyes. "How I have missed you! I did not realize how lonely it would be here without you and Saelind. I still cannot believe she is gone."

As he always did at such times, Halbarad thought of his dead mother. Her soft eyes smiled as she crooned, _sleep, little one, sleep._ He shook off his mood. "Men of action we are, you and I. For our great-grandmother's memory, let's go kill Trolls to avenge her son's death."

They shook hands on it.

~oOo~

"Killing Trolls is grim work," said Goenor. "Their size alone makes them dangerous, for all they are as dumb as a post. It's usually best to outwit them. They can see in the dark, and their sense of smell is keen. None of you has ever seen one, am I right?"  
  


They were seated around the campfire on the first night of their journey to the Weather Hills: Halbarad, Aragorn, Rodnor and Rodnion, and Malbeth. With them were two pack ponies loaded with gear and the two hounds, now sleeping, their great heads on their paws.

Halbarad looked up from the arrow he was fletching. "I saw one from a distance, while I was scouting last fall. We did not chase it."

Goenor nodded, his thick grey beard moving with his chin. "We'll need to debrief the men with the latest sightings to determine our path. They usually don't venture so far west. They hoard treasure, and if they have any inkling that some is to be found, that will start them moving. But if there is treasure in the Weather Hills, we don't know it."  
  


Aragorn said. "I have never seen one, only heard the pounding of their hammers in the mountains. In our sorties from Rivendell we skirted the Trollshaws. As long as they stay within those borders, the Elves leave them alone."

"We'll find the trail, and set up our plan." His face grew eager and bright. "Swords aren't much use—you can't usually get close enough to them to gut them, although I have seen it done. Once. The best weapon is bow and arrow—shoot them in the eye, or the mouth. Horses don't help much, either. Even the largest war stallion looks like a toy next to a Troll, and a horse at a gallop is only just faster than a Troll on the march. What's more, the only meat tastier to a Troll than manflesh—is horseflesh."

Rodnion gasped.

Goenor turned twinkling eyes on the boy. "Well, well, my child, it's not all bad news. The country folk say that if a man kissed a Troll hag, she would turn into a beautiful Elf maiden. For all I know, that's true."

The twins guffawed.

"Don't go telling that tale in Rivendell," Aragorn laughed. "They'll have your head."

"I would never dare." Goenor winked. "I prefer to hunt with dogs: Carcharoth and Huan are trained to Trolls. They know to keep silent, they can find the lairs faster than we can, and they can go to ground to hide. We will follow the Troll's trail to the lair and watch its movements for several days, or a week. That means all-night vigils. A tall tree is a good post, so I like to bring a couple of boys."

He nodded at Rodnion and Rodnor, who grinned with pride. It was their first mission outside the Angle.   
  
"A Troll's habits are simple and easy to predict once you've watched it a bit," continued Goenor. "Depending on the lay of the land and the particular Troll, we'll aim to wound it and cripple it till the sun comes up and turns it to stone. Spears are the best weapon. Once we set boulders over the door to the lair and let them fly when the Troll came out. That worked well."

Goenor stroked his big grey beard. "I don't know if you know this, Aragorn, but I was there when Arador died."

Aragorn had been staring moodily into the fire, trying not to think about Arwen. He straightened up and gave Goenor his full attention. "I've never heard the full tale. Tell me."

Goenor sighed. "Well, then. It was a terrible thing. We were on horse, traveling south on the outskirts of the Trollshaws—Arador, Arathorn, Beleg, Voronion and I—on our way from Fornost back to the Angle. We stopped for a time in the Weather Hills; there used to be more of our folk there, and it was partly due to the events around Arador's death that so few live there now.   
  
"We had word then also of troubles among the hillmen to the east. For many years we have had little to do with the lands of old Rhudaur beyond the Angle itself; we leave the hillmen alone, and they stay in their own lands. They do not trouble us, but live much as they always have, going back, from what men say, before the Númenoreans came.   
  
"But they spoke of Orcs coming from hills, and that we could not ignore, despite their suspicion and hate. They feared us almost as much as the Orcs and the raiders. 'The Tall Ones,' they call us.   
  
"We set in quick pursuit through the hills and into the downs toward the Ettenmoors. I had my axe and staff, Arathorn his sword and spear, Voronion and Beleg their bows, our horses were swift and strong. We were well-armed to pursue Orcs—but Trolls is what we found. We were not prepared. Beleg tried to stop Arador, I remember. 'Let's fall back—we are too close to Troll land. This is foolish.'  
  
" 'They will get away if we turn our backs,' the Chieftain answered. He didn't know it would be his last ride. He had always been a bold campaigner, overcoming odds by sheer will and daring.  
  
"It was getting dark by then, but Arador kept going, albeit slower for the horses' sake. We didn't stop until we saw a campfire ahead on the hill—our quarry had halted for the night. Arador bade us set up camp, and he, Voronion and Beleg went ahead on foot to scout. Arathorn and I stayed at our camp with the horses. It was cold and we could not risk a fire. We stood at arms the whole time, waiting and ready.  
  
"I don't know how the Trolls came upon them. We never saw Arador again, and Beleg does not remember. We heard shouts, then screaming. We ran into the woods toward the noise, in time to see the loathsome shapes stomping away. Voronion and Beleg lay on the ground. We hauled them into some bushes for the time being and set off after the Trolls. What else could we do? The chieftain was taken.  
  
"We never found Arador. We looked, but it was hopeless. Even in the daytime when we looked for their lair, we could find none. For several days we scouted and watched. When it came time to leave—to give up at last, for Beleg and Voronion were failing and had to be brought to warmth and care—Arathorn cried like a lost child.  
  
"He went back, of course. Many times. No sign of his father was ever found. The Orcs seemed to have vanished; we never heard more of them. Finally, a year later, Arathorn was finally willing to admit what we others had always known—that Arador was dead. You, Aragorn, were just born.   
  
"Beleg was ill a long time. His wound would not heal. The head injury caused spells of unconsciousness. He never recovered any memory of what had happened. Voronion lived—barely. He was never the same. He could no longer speak, and his wife had to care for him like a baby for last year of his life. A terrible end to a great-hearted man.  
  
"I've often wondered if it was a trap—that the Orcs meant to lead us to the Trolls. Others have doubted me; we've never known Trolls to act with others like that, they say. But I say, who knows? Is it not true that the Enemy can mold his creatures to his will? I don't suppose we will ever know what really happened to Arador son of Argonui."

Aragorn met Halbarad's eyes across the fire. "But we will have revenge at last."

~oOo~

The Weather Hills Rangers had a primitive post to the north, and Aragorn and his companions planned to use it as their base camp. Once they were in place at the border of Troll territory, several weeks of meticulous tracking and scouting followed. Aragorn found the first traces; he and Halbarad had broken off from the others to scour the lands to the north.

They spent the night in a treetop, hoping to see the creature itself, sitting back to back on a sturdy branch, seeking warmth from each other's bodies, and speaking spoke only with hand signals. In the deep of night they heard the Troll coming from a good distance: a sound almost of fire racing through the wood as the huge form crashed through bushes and trees. The moonlight illuminated all her hideousness—for it was a Troll hag—as she pounded through the wood.  
  
She carried a huge club in one monstrous hand. Her bare feet flattened all in her path. Lank hair sprouted from her ugly head; thick, bulbous lips stretched across a wide maw filled with teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Her tongue flicked out and licked spittle from the edges of her mouth. Her piggish eyes roamed to and fro across the ground before her; the club swayed in her grasp.  
  
The Troll was hungry. Aragorn wondered how she could possibly catch anything, with the noise of her pounding feet, her grunting throat, her great beefy hands ripping out the small trees. Surely all the creatures would have run.   
  
The Troll swept down into the bracken, and a young doe tried to leap away. With a roar of triumph the Troll swung her club down onto the creature's back. Tossing the club to the ground, she seized the doe with two hands and tore its legs off. One after another pieces of the deer disappeared into the huge maw, while blood ran down her chin and onto her wrinkled dugs and the filthy leather wrapped around her hairy waist. She grunted with pleasure as her teeth crunched through the animal's bones and flesh.  
  
Fighting against his heaving belly, Aragorn forced himself to watch. He had to learn about these loathsome creatures. They had to be driven back, for the sake of all, and not least for vengeance. For what was happening to the doe was what had happened to his grandfather.  
  
At last she finished, picked up her club, and headed off in the direction of the stream—to wash down her hideous meal, he guessed.  
  
Aragorn and Halbarad were silent till all sound of the Troll's passing was gone. Even if it had been safe to do so, Aragorn did not think he could have spoken. He shivered with horror and disgust, and gripped Halbarad's arms for strength. Halbarad grabbed his shoulders, and Aragorn could feel his companion's trembling. After a while their hearts began to still.  
  
"Well," Halbarad spoke low, his voice blending with the murmuring of the fir tree. "Do you think if we kissed her she would turn into a beauty?"  
  
Aragorn pressed his lips together to suppress his snort. "Why don't you try it?"

They laughed soundlessly and mirthlessly, glad for each other's companionship.

~oOo~

The Rangers moved camp near to the place where Halbarad and Aragorn had seen the Troll. Nearby was a narrow trail leading to a deep gulch, which Goenor judged ideal for a nighttime ambush: they would lure the Troll into a trap. 

Under the light of the full moon, they lined each side of the low cliffs above the rocky trail, and waited for the noise of the Troll's nightly rampage: hours they waited, till a bare hour before dawn. Aragorn stood, spear in hand, at the edge opposite Goenor and Malbeth with the two dogs. Halbarad and Rodnor stood on Aragorn's side; Rodnion on Goenor's; all three with bows at the ready. Carcharoth and Huan quivered with the anticipation of the chase; their eager noses first caught the stench of the Troll's approach and they pricked their ears with excitement. With a quick snap of his fingers Goenor released them to the chase. Baying, they disappeared into the night; soon the roars of the Troll sounded in the dark. Almost as if following orders, the Troll stomped after the dogs into the ambush, leading to the gulch covered with branches and leaves—strong enough to bear a dog's weight, but not a Troll's.  
  
Aragorn crouched, waiting for the moment to hurl his spear as the archers shot at the Troll. The dogs' broad backs gleamed in the moonshine as they howled in their flight toward the trap. Aragorn could hear and smell the Troll before he saw her, her gruesome head just below his hiding place on the cliff. 

A scream rang out, the crumbling sound of a body and rocks rolling down a hill: arms flailing, his bow broken, Rodnion tumbled down the cliff's face, and Aragorn heard the sickening crunch of a broken bone. "Rodnion!" he called as he leaped down the slope, heedless of anything but the boy's danger.   
  
From above Halbarad was already firing arrows at the Troll. Some hit her, but she reacted not at all, her malicious eyes focused only on the boy before her.

"Aim at her head!" Goenor shouted to Halbarad as he and Malbeth rolled down the slope.  
  
The Troll grabbed Rodnion around the waist. The boy was screaming with terror as she lifted him to her hideous mouth, jaws gaping.   
  
Aragorn focused on her scaly back and plunged the spear between her ribs, shouting, "Die, you monster, die!" She roared, and made as if to turn, but Goenor ducked under her huge arm and thrust his spear into her belly.  
  
His spear stuck in the creature's stinking body, Aragorn swept Morchamion out of its scabbard and began swiping at the Troll's legs. Roaring like a bear, Goenor repeatedly stabbed at the Troll's belly until she swatted him aside with one huge hand. Lifting Rodnion overhead, she began to lower him head first into her mouth.   
  
Aragorn tried to shut out the boy's sickening screams as he made one last mighty thrust of his sword into the Troll's side. As her jaws met around Rodnion's neck, she swayed and toppled, knocking Aragorn over in her fall. Goenor leaped up and with one bound thrust his spear into her eye. She shuddered and lay still.  
  
Aragorn hauled himself to his feet and climbed over the trunk-like leg.

What remained of Rodnion's head in the Troll's mouth was a mass of bone, blood and brain.

His courage melted into grief, and his voice joined the anguished cries of his companions. Malbeth was sobbing Rodnion's name, his hands, covered in his brother's blood, clutching the boy's still intact shoulders, drawing him to his breast.  
  
Aragorn scarcely felt the pain of his bruised side, although a voice spoke at the back of his mind, _Watch out, your leg, do not injure it further, think of Elrond's warnings!_ He ignored it. He stared at the agonizing scene before him, but no tears would come to his eyes.  
  
_Rodnor!_  
  
He swept his eyes up to the cliff where Rodnion's twin was supposed to be. He had not moved. Halbarad was at his side, attempting to remove the drawn bow and nocked arrow from the boy's frozen hands.

Aragorn could not hear what Halbarad was saying as he took the boy's weapons and laid them at his side, then took his hands. Halbarad's dark head bent over Rodnor. Tears started in Aragorn's eyes as he turned his attention again to the scene before him.  
  
Goenor had spread his cloak over the boy's body, and was trying to draw Malbeth away. "We must leave here. This is no place to give way to grief. We are not safe."  
  
"See to the dogs," Aragorn said as he limped around the Troll's hulk to the boy's body.   
  
Malbeth lifted his tear-stained face and whistled sharply. The dogs slunk back, ears and tails drooping, down the bloody path, whining. Malbeth dropped to the ground and held the beasts to him. Sniffing the air and howling by turn, they huddled close to their master.  
  
Aragorn helped Goenor wrap the boy's body in the cloak. All around the dead Troll his life blood pooled. Except for his crushed head and the leg broken in his fall, he had no injuries.  
  
"Can you help bear his weight back to the camp?" Goenor asked. "Are you fit?"  
  
"I am well enough," Aragorn answered. "It's bruising only; how severe I will not know until I tend it."

"For a minute I thought the Troll had crushed you."

"Mercifully not."  
  


"The sun is coming up," Geonor said. "Watch."  
  
The light glimmered in the far eastern sky, spreading rapidly across the treeless hills. When the first beam fell upon the dead Troll, her lumpy greenish flesh hardened into dull grey stone; her lanky hair became brown weeds; her black blood thickened into foul muck.  
  
"We killed one," Aragorn said quietly. "At a terrible cost."  
  
Goenor did not reply. In silence they bore the body back to the camp hidden in the wood.

Halbarad helped Malbeth arrange his brother's body, nestled among the leaves and covered with the green branches of fir trees. "Tomorrow we will bury him, here near to where he fell, as befits a hero of the Rangers."

White-faced, eyes as blank as a muddy puddle, Rodnor stared at him.   
  
Goenor began to prepare some food—a thick porridge. "We need something hot today," he muttered. He looked up wearily and scanned the horizon through the trees.  
  
Aragorn knew he worried that other Trolls might be summoned by the bellowing of their dying sister. _We must remain hidden for the day, in quiet_. He stripped his breeches from his bruised leg and probed the flesh, seeking out any deeper hurt. But it seemed that he had escaped with a buffeting that would leave his side black and blue, but no worse.   
  
Suddenly Rodnor bolted up. "I must see him," he said wildly. "You said he's dead, but I don't believe it. I feel him calling." He turned as if to run to the bower where his twin's body lay.  
  
Ignoring his body's protests, Aragorn leaped up and seized the boy's hands. "Shh, shh," he said gently. "Yes, he is dead, a hero. You are in shock. Sit here with me," and he drew the boy down and threw a thick woolen cloak over the two of them, and held the trembling boy against the warmth of his chest.  
  
So Elladan and Elrohir had done in the early years of Estel's rides, when the horror of blood and death seemed too much to be borne.   
  
_How would my brothers feel if one were killed? The living would hear the voice of the dead calling. I know this happens with Elves, whose spirits live after their bodies are gone. But Men? How little I know of my own kind._  
  
Later that day clouds moved over the sun and a light rain began to fall. It seemed to Aragorn that all the sky and the land wept for the dead boy, cut down so young, and in an accident that never should have happened. With soft whines, the dogs crept to him, leaning against Rodnor's side and back, quiet and mournful. Rodnor stroked their thick coats and rubbed their ears. But he did not cry.  
  
Malbeth brought out his small lute and began to sing. He sang of heroism and sacrifice, of the bitterness of death.  
  
As anguished as his feelings already were, Aragorn's heart burst in two when Malbeth's rich voice began to sing Lúthien's lament for Beren.  
  
_The song that melted the heart of Mandos himself_. _Never would I want to bring such grief to my love, but there is no fear of that. I have not earned such passion. Love and grief. Did my mother grieve so for Arathorn? And my grandfather, he who was eaten by a Troll as Rodnion barely escaped—who mourned for him?_  
  
He wished the tears would come. Behind him stretched years, generations, of dead chieftains and kings, and still he did not feel as one of them. Still the name of Arathorn drew only emptiness in his mind's eye—an abyss to nothingness. Loss and grief seized him like the wave of Númenor drowning all the land, leaving only the grey sea and the lonely call of the gull. But the grief had a stranger's name.


	23. Beyond the Circles of the World

Goenor shattered the Troll's door with several strokes of his heavy axe. A dank smell of secrecy poured out of the cave. Carrying torches, Halbarad and Aragorn stepped over the splintered planks and peered within.  
  
In the torchlight Halbarad saw a clutter of monstrous clubs in a pile to the right. Beyond, in the gloom, loomed vast shapes, silent, motionless. Bones and ragged bits of hide strewn on the floor showed that the Troll had not always eaten her catch whole. Just beyond the smaller opening—the Troll must have had to stoop to enter—the rough-hewn, dark rock soared up to a narrow roof where the dark shapes of sleeping bats hung.  
  
They moved cautiously to the larger space where ancient chests stood against the walls, covered with skins. Giving his torch to Aragorn, Halbarad heaved open one massive lid to reveal a jumble of broken daggers, pieces of armor, bones—some human—with shreds of dried flesh attached. He dropped the lid in disgust. If the chest held coins or jewels, it would take work to find them.  
  
On the other side was a crude wooden table as high as Halbarad was tall, beside it a vast carved stone tub, set to catch a trickle of water off the cave wall. On the table were several human skulls, upside down and without their jaws. Halbarad saw a glimmer of liquid through the eyeholes and muttered, "Some mother's son, now a drinking cup." Aragorn shuddered and moved deeper into the cave. He gestured Halbarad forward: a bend in the passage loomed ahead. Cautiously and noiselessly they rounded it, to find the Troll's hoard: weapons of all kinds littered the floor. In the flickering torchlight gleamed many swords and axes.

Halbarad drew one blade and fingered the edge. "This is a fine weapon that we should put to use against our enemies." He placed it against the wall and picked up a heavy leather scabbard: the knife within bore a black pommel carved with a hideous red face at its end. In revulsion he dropped it. "A weapon of the Enemy, no mistake."

Last were several pots of copper and silver coins. Beyond, a dark, low tunnel dug into the bowels of the earth.

~oOo~

The company loaded two sturdy pack horses, brought from the main Ranger camp, with as much of the valuables from the Troll's hoard as the beasts could carry. The coin and weapons all would be of great worth to the Dúnedain in use and trade. They hastily buried what human remains could be quickly removed from the loathsome den. Halbarad tried not to think about Rodnion rotting beneath the earth, soon to be bones like these, but the image of the dead boy would not leave his mind.

The journey home seemed endless. Even the blossoming spring did not lighten Halbarad's mood. When dark fell, Rodnor curled up to sleep between Malbeth and the two great hounds, but even so he had bad dreams nearly every night. His nightmare cries of fear and sorrow shook Halbarad's heart. Aragorn also seemed to be passing restless nights, but he growled at Halbarad's questions or expressions of concern. Halbarad stomped off in disgust. _Manwë asking Fëanor for the Silmarils probably got a more friendly response._

__

Halbarad struggled to keep up his own spirits. He dreaded telling Hawk the news of his grandson's ghastly death. But Goenor shook his head. "No, Halbarad, it will be best from me. I am the leader of this troop and his lifelong friend."

Halbarad nodded, and glanced at Aragorn to catch his eye. But Aragorn sat alone, his shoulders slumped, wholly absorbed in his private sorrow. Irritated, Halbarad wondered if Aragorn thought death was any easier for the rest of them, just because they had known it all their lives.

The people of the Angle were busy with the spring sowing as the company journeyed to Thurnost, and there were few other travelers on the road. The Keep, too, was quiet. Except for the men needed to guard the perimeter of the Angle and the Keep itself, all Rangers were now in the Wild till winter set in. Hawk had gone to Tharbad, and Goenor and Malbeth soon left to bring him the tidings of Rodnion's death and to bolster the post. Ivorwen took Rodnor to stay for a time with her family in the Commons, to look after him in his grief. Hallor buried himself in his work, and often traveled the perimeter of the Angle.

Even Idhril was gone; she had at last gotten leave for a sojourn in Rivendell to learn healing from Master Elrond. _Her heart's desire, but lonely for me. At least we could have mourned together._ He thought often of his dead mother. When he spoke to Aragorn of his own anguish, the reply was a curt "So be it." His temper rising, Halbarad was about to tell Aragorn just what he thought of him when he noticed Fíriel creeping around like a frightened cat as she performed her duties. He left with an abrupt turn, and told his father he wished to spend more time at the Point, where he was needed.

~oOo~

Aragorn put his low mood down to a weariness such as he had never known. In Thurnost, at least, he would rest and regain his strength and spirits. With Daeron gone, and minds turned away from past troubles, surely the mood in the Keep would have improved. But everything seemed grey and faded. _What ails me? Never have I felt such despair._ He wanted more than anything to be left alone.

He threw himself into work to raise his spirits. And he had much to do: without Daeron, arms training fell upon the other Rangers. Every morning he taught the sword to Rodnor and a few other gangly, half-grown boys; the rest of the day he divided between caring for the horses and helping in the healer's cottage, shorthanded in Idhril's absence. When Halbarad, he felt only relief at finally being left alone. Now he would be pressed with questions he did not want to answer.

He thought often of his great-grandmother, as if his grief over her death had not faded, but rather grown. He went by horseback to pay his respects at the barrow where Saelind now lay next to her lord, Argonui son of Arathorn I, the last chieftain buried in the Angle. But he found no comfort there. Her wisdom, her good heart—all had come to this, a cold grave. Even the trilling of a thrush in the tall grass did not lift his heart. 

At night, a dream troubled him in endless repetition.

_A dreary rain fell, chill and sad, upon the stark slopes of the mountain top. Alone, he struggled on foot up a desolate path. He bore no arms, carried no pack. Suddenly, as if out of the very air, Orcs and fierce Men attacked. Disarmed as he was, he fought with fists and feet, but without hope. Death bit his flesh….mourners dressed in black, keening their sorrow, followed a woman weeping, her face covered in a dark veil. She stood before a bier. In dread, he, as one of the mourners, approached the bed of the newly dead. But no man lay there, only the Sword that was Broken, with blood on its edge._

Whenever this dream came, he did not sleep again that night. He would rise, light a lantern and read the small book Saelind had given him. But sometimes that proved a poor remedy, as when he happened upon a melancholy ode on the doom of mortals. 

_The weariness, the fever, and the fret_  
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;  
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,  
Where youth grows pale, and specter-thin, and dies;  
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow  
And leaden-eyed despairs,  
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,  
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow. __

~oOo~

One afternoon Aragorn left the Keep for the woods just across the inlet to seek the early summer's young leaves of _athelas._ Even here, where the Dúnedain had lived for so many years, the plant was difficult to find, growing in shaded mossy gaps between stones near a spring or small stream. On the banks of a tiny waterfall gurgling over rocks and tree roots, he found a few dark leaves large enough to cull and tucked them into his pouch. His heart was heavy with the memory of a woman whose life the healers had barely saved that very morning. Her baby had died. At least the fresh _athelas_ would bring the young wife, barely more than a girl, some soothing in her grief. The beauty of the summer seemed to insult her short life and cruel death.

Heading back, he followed the stream south toward the Keep. The rich woodsy water had cut a cleft in the earth on its way to the inlet. Here Aragorn sat down on the bank; moss and small pink and white flowers grew in the stony mouth where the clear water flowed into the murky blue of the deep, narrow bay washing up against the dark walls of the Keep. A frog burped in the shallows; flies droned in the warm air of the late afternoon sun. He had gone swimming here before and found the water cool and brisk, so inviting in the heat of the day. Carefully taking the silver chain with the Ring of Barahir from his neck, he stripped off his clothes, and waded into the shallows. A few feet in, the water dropped to unfathomable depths. He struck out with broad, strong strokes for the deep stream.

Hoping to expend his despair in action, he swam with his greatest speed and strength toward the mouth where the bay joined the Hoarwell, strong and cold with the melt water from the mountains far to the north. There the circling current had carved a great bowl into the black rock of the Keep. Closing his eyes, he lay upon his back, drifting with the power of the eddy. 

The water embraced him like a mother's arms, whispering _come to me, rest now, rest.…_

How easy it would be! Just a few more strokes would carry him into the main channel of the Hoarwell. The power of the river would take him forever.

The current pushing his body grew stronger. He opened his eyes; the serenity of the sky caressed his sight. There against a silvery cloud spread the dark wings of a queen's falcon, blessing his choice. He turned over and lifted his head to find the shortest way to the Hoarwell, and as his ears broke into the air, the murmuring of the river ceased. 

_ Kee kee kee. _

Treading water, he looked up. The falcon circled, crying yet again.

Awareness jolted him like a scream in the night. _What am I doing?_

He turned back, swimming hard. Every time his head emerged from the water, he heard the cries of the falcon. But by the time he reached the shore where he had left his clothes and kit, the raptor had gone from the sky. Climbing out of the dark water, he lay back on the mossy bank and panted for breath. His eyes fell upon the Ring of Barahir glinting gold and green in the spill of silver chain. 

__

_To drown myself! What kind of man am I, to be so weak? No true son of Beren, certainly._

Shaken, he dressed quickly and set out with broad strides for the Keep. Night was falling by the time he reached the Commons, and the evening meal already past. Two young women were sweeping the floor as he walked through; they lifted their eyes and smiled shyly. Their obvious admiration only served to dishearten him still more. _Every one but the one I want._

As he was filling a bowl from the soup pot simmering at the kitchen hearth, Ivorwen appeared at the pantry door. "Good evening, grandson. We missed you at supper."

He made an effort to smile. "I'll be content with soup and bread. Please do not trouble yourself."

She poured him a mug of ale and, taking up some mending from a basket, sat across from him at the rough wooden table spanning the wall covered with small pots of herbs, jam and honey. Her silent warmth comforted him, and he felt the strain in his shoulders begin to soothe. His bowl empty, he put his head in his hands and drew his fingers through his tangled hair.

Ivorwen reached out and patted his arm. "Estel."  
  
He looked up. "You've never called me by that name before."  
  
"I caught it from Gilraen in Rivendell, and found that it suits you."

He chuckled. "But you would not say it around Grandfather."

Her smile was mischievous. "Perhaps, perhaps not. In any case, he is far away in Sarn Ford. Come, my child. You are grieving, and you don't even know it."  
  
Wondering, he let her draw his hand into her two. "Grieving? And should I not? Rodnion's death was a cruel waste."

She stroked his roughened fingers. "So true. But perhaps your grief is more than that."

"My great-grandmother, too, of course, for all her time had come. It is still bitter, and I do not know how to mourn."

She tightened her hold on his hand. "I miss her sorely. So many loved ones have died, but it never gets easier."

"Perhaps my trouble is being so new to mortal life. There are no barrows in Rivendell."

She sighed. "No indeed. So lovely, so enchanting."

_Only memory now. My home is here._ But the memory of Arwen's smile as he held her in his arms was keen and sharp as a sword point. He looked up to see his grandmother's sweet and loving eyes upon him. She pressed his hand again. "You are not as new to mortal life as you think, grandson. You do not remember your first years, but I do. Death is a terrible shock to a small child, perhaps more because they do not understand and cannot speak of it. Your father was suddenly gone from your life. Perhaps his death marked you more than you know. Shall I tell you?" 

Her words struck him like a flash of light. "Please."

"When I saw Elladan and Elrohir at the door of the Commons, I knew. Beleg was with them, of course, his head swathed in bandages. But Arathorn was not." She sighed, pain etched on her face. "I brought the news to Gilraen. She and Ariel were in the solar at their needlework. You were playing with your toys on the floor, absorbed by your game. And they, too, knew by the sight of me. I didn't even know till I touched my own face that I was already crying. 'Mother?' was all she said. 'Slain,' I said. We clutched each other, all three of us, crying, unable to speak. Then I felt a tugging at my skirts, and there you were, questions and fright all over your little face. I've cared for enough small children in my day to know that while they may not understand what has happened, they catch the mood. And so it was with you. Gilraen collapsed utterly for the rest of the day and all of the next, and the next after that, and I took you from her. She couldn't care for a child." 

Ivorwen raised her hands in a gesture of sorrow and resignation, and her voice fell to a whisper. "My Sight was strong that day, and I saw darkness and fear, and all the more when I held you in my arms. I kept you with me for all those days, and you were either pale and silent, or crying with terror. I know you don't remember, but I do. Then Gilraen came to herself again. That evening she spoke long with Elladan and Elrohir, and I hoped that she was beginning to master her grief. I put you back in her arms, and I saw that you were her greatest solace. You mourned, child. But then you forgot. And your grief is still there, somewhere in your heart."

_I grieved for my father. I do not remember his face, but I mourned him._ It seemed right and true. He lifted his grandmother's hand and kissed it. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. And now I know what I should do. I have sometimes thought to find his grave in the Wild, and now I know I must." _And I will take the Sword with me—the Sword that my father, too, carried in his time._

Her smile broke through her sadness. "That would be a very good thing to do."

~oOo~

As he expected, Hallor was more than willing to allow him leave, despite the desperate need for Rangers. "No man could deny you this, least of all me. Furthermore, a journey to the country where he met his death would be useful beyond its importance to you. I mistrust the reports of quiet we hear from east of the Weather Hills. Let's hope you find nothing but a grave, and no sign of the enemy. You cannot go alone, however. Who can go with you? Beleg was there at the time, but he lost all memory of what happened and would not know the way."

The thought of such a journey with Beleg and his changeable moods dismayed Aragorn. "Not Beleg. Elladan and Elrohir will go with me. They offered to do so two years ago, but I didn't see the need, and was eager to be here. Now I understand it better."

Hallor nodded. "Take Halbarad, too. He has just returned from duty on the perimeter."

But Aragorn shook his head. "This is a thing for me to do alone, with my brothers only. They promised to come to Thurnost this summer, when their duties allow, to bring greetings from Rivendell and its Master. I will ask them to bring me to the grave."

Hallor raised his eyebrows and seemed about to object, but then his face softened. "Well, it is your wish, of course. I will be truly glad to welcome the sons of Elrond to the Keep, and I do hope they bring my daughter with them. She is needed."

Aragorn thanked him, and took his leave. His decision brought him a measure of relief from his gloom. That evening, absorbed in his thoughts and staring distractedly at his feet, he strode out of his quarters toward the stairs down to the Great Hall—and ploughed right into Halbarad. Halbarad called out, bracing his hands against his friend. "Hold there, Aragorn!"  
  
He looked up. "My pardon, I am stupidly distracted."  
  
"Not stupidly."  
  
"Thanks for your kindness." He made as if to pass, feeling guilty for his coolness and distance from his friend.  
  
"No, you don't."  
  
Only then did Aragorn notice the frown and the heat of anger in Halbarad's eyes. "What's the matter?"  
  
"The matter?" Halbarad raised his voice. "You've been avoiding me for weeks. And now you plan a journey to your father's grave, and I am not to come?"  
  
"Hallor shouldn't have told you."  
  
"And why not? I am your friend and your cousin. I'm going too."  
  
"No, you're not."  
  
"Besides, I knew it already."  
  
"You did not."  
  
"I did. I can read you, Aragorn, however secretive you get."  
  
That was just what Aragorn did not want. "No, you can't," he said, raising his voice in turn. "It's none of your business. Now get out of my way." He hardly understood the hot surge of rage that shot like a bolt into his head, but all his pain and sadness fed it.  
  
"If you leave me behind, I'll track you," Halbarad hissed. "You know I can."  
  
"You dare not track me," Aragorn snarled. "I command you to stay. And my brothers are going with me, anyway."  
  
By this point they were eye to eye and both red-faced.  
  
"They are going, and not me? Your 'brothers'? Am I not your brother? You 'command' me? We'll see about that!" Halbarad threw a punch that landed on Aragorn's left eye. 

Taken by surprise, Aragorn blocked the blow too late. Enraged, he balled up his fist and smacked Halbarad on the nose.  
  
The hallway was too narrow for a good fight, and the force of their swings soon had both of them leaning up against the walls to either side, holding sorry hands to their bruises and groaning. Then they burst out laughing and fell into each other's arms. Halbarad's bloody nose smeared Aragorn's beard. 

Running feet sounded along with their boisterous laughter. "What is this disgrace?" boomed a great voice. "Brawling like drunkards in the Commons?"

Aragorn looked over Halbarad's shoulder to see the acting chieftain standing there, his face warring between disapproval and laughter. "Nothing to worry about, Hallor. Merely two brothers solving a dispute in the manly fashion." He thumped Halbarad on the back.

"Ouch! You'll pay for that. I'm coming now, right?"

"I dare not deny you."

And they began laughing again. 

~oOo~

A week later, Aragorn's black eye had faded, but Elladan and Elrohir had still not come, nor had Idhril returned from Rivendell. "Good thing, too," Halbarad said. "I would have a lot of explaining to do, punching out their little brother."

Aragorn laughed. "When you know them, you will not say that."

Halbarad could not imagine what he meant. _As fair as Elf lords, they say._ He had known very few Elves—Gildor Inglorion and his companions sometimes spoke with Rangers in the Wild, but others rarely traveled. Why should they leave their havens for this treacherous world? A good question. The sons of Elrond, however, were famous for their ceaseless Orc hunting in vengeance for their mother's torment. Surely they were far too serious and grim to be brawling in the hallways.

Halbarad was engaged in an archery lesson with a moody Rodnor when the gate warden's bell rang, announcing visitors to the Keep. "Hold, Rodnor," he said to the boy, who was about to nock another arrow. "Let's go greet the guests."

They hurried to the gate, but even so, Aragorn was already there, embracing two tall, dark-haired figures, their fair, smooth faces alight with joy. Ivorwen and Hallor stood respectfully by, and bowed in formal greeting. A silent crowd of gawking people gathered around them. 

"Halbarad!" His sister flung herself into his arms. Bright-eyed, she wore a handsome cloak that Halbarad had never seen. 

"You return looking like a queen, sister."

Idhril spread wide the sleeves of her furred mantel. "Isn't it lovely? Gilraen made it. She made me dresses, too. Ah! She is charming and so very beautiful."

Laughing, Halbarad hugged her hard. "I have missed you terribly."

Then he noticed that Rodnor stood frozen, his face white and drawn. "What is it?"

"Twins," Rodnor said. "They are twins. Twin Elves."

One of the twins—Halbarad certainly did not know who—turned to the boy with a laugh. "Twins, yes. Elves, almost."

Rodnor looked like he was going to be sick. Ivorwen grasped his hand and quickly led him away.

"You will have to excuse him," Halbarad said, his voice low. "His own twin brother died not long ago."

"Ah!" Two clear grey eyes appraised him. "That is a thing not to be borne. We will talk to him of it when he is ready." He held out a hand in formal greeting. "I am Elrohir."

"Halbarad Hallor's son am I, and most pleased to meet you and your brother."

A musical laugh joined a winning smile, and Halbarad wondered where the grim warrior was. "Estel has told us all about you, and now we will find out how much of the truth he has told."

"Yes, we will be companions on the road. Aragorn wishes to go to his father's grave."

A wave of sadness passed over the expressive eyes. "I knew he would wish to do so, eventually. I am glad you will come."

Halbarad shivered to think that this man, who looked no older than he, had known all of his ancestors as far back as Valandil, and had seen generations of the Heirs of Isildur grow to manhood, age and die. _Beyond the circles of the world._


	24. The Grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See "Horse Thief" in "Many Guises and Many Names" and Gwynnyd's "Lighting Fires" for more tales of Estel's childhood.

Elladan stopped when he reached the crest of the rocky hill. "There it is: Dol Draug. Beyond lies the pass into Angmar, where the sorcerer had his fortress in the old days. Before Arathorn's death we made forays there every few years, seeking out any new Orc lairs."

Aragorn took the last few steps to Elladan's side at a long stride. Before him, the land fell to grassy downs crisscrossed with meandering rocky pathways and gulches before it began to climb again to hills receding into the blue distance. Towering beyond the downs rose Dol Draug, Wolf's Head Mountain, a sharp, black point like a wolf's ear thrust into the sky, while to the east a sloping shoulder of rock dropped suddenly in a cliff, looking indeed like the snout of a wolf against the misty blue ridges to the north.

"My father says it once was a fire mountain, and that is why it looms over all the other peaks. But long ago it ceased to burn."

Aragorn gazed out over the rough, dry country. "It will be a slow journey through this slag."

"For some distance, we know paths around the rougher places. But closer to the mountain, we know the land less well and our way will be more difficult."

They waited for Elrohir and Halbarad to catch up before beginning the winding way to the downs below. That day, and the next, and the day after that, they picked their way across the plain, following dry stream beds and paths of stone through the maze of rocky hills tufted with dry grass. Beyond the plain, they began to climb rough slopes into a bleak and weary land. Even in the early autumn, little grew but grey lichen and a few straggling weeds. The land leveled out into a wide and desolate plateau; an ancient river bed divided it from the mountains proper. Elladan led them to a promontory overlooking the valley below, where a stream, all that now remained of the river, coursed through sullen brown rocks covered in thorny brush.

Elladan strode to the edge of the sheer drop, gesturing for Aragorn to follow him. "It was there," he said, pointing to the harsh ledges below. "I came up here to scout the way ahead, looking for any threats before we rode our horses into the valley. We had not been here for some years, but Orcs had seldom been seen here before. That's why we tracked them, because we feared they were expanding their range. We were headed to the higher country, where we were more likely to find them—we feared they were setting up camps from Gundabad in the far north. The risks had increased, indeed, rather suddenly since the death of Arador only three years before."

Sighing, he turned to his foster brother. "You know the problem, Estel—we must be cautious and not risk ourselves needlessly, nevertheless risks must be taken. I bitterly regret that I judged wrong in this case."

Elrohir said, "We saw no sign of them, my brother. You are not to blame. As we have learned before to great cost, they have many secret passages and hidden doors."

Aragorn knew he meant the Orcs' seizure and torture of Celebrían, their mother. _Arwen's mother._ Once she had spoken to him of her, a slow tear coursing down her cheek into the soft down of her hair. He had caressed it away as she wept over her mother's torment. _For her, too, I will seek the deaths of these Orcs and all servants of the Enemy._

Elrohir continued, "It was particularly dangerous in those years, before the Battle of the Five Armies reduced the plague of mountain Orcs and ended the terror of the dragon."

Aragorn nodded. "Tell me more of how it happened."

"After my survey, we followed the lesser slope there to the east, into the river valley. Beleg and Arathorn rode ahead and disappeared around that black stone below." Elladan pointed to a pillar of dark rock accusing the sky like a malevolent finger. The river bed swung sharply around it to the north and disappeared from view. "We did not see the attack, which began with a sudden, silent ambush. But we heard a scream—Beleg calling out for help. We quickened our pace and as we came up we saw the Orcs dragging Arathorn away and attempting to seize Beleg as well. Arathorn was already dead. He could not have survived that arrow through his eye—he must have died instantly, the only mercy of the day."

He stopped to draw a ragged breath, sorrow on his fair face. "We prevented them from seizing Beleg, but not before he was badly injured himself. We had to leave him to pursue the Orcs, and we killed all of them and recovered Arathorn's body. It was a terrible moment when we saw he was dead and how he had died—and they had hacked his body after death."

Silent, Aragorn listened to the tale of his father's death. A wave of weakness in the pit of his stomach threatened to bring him to his knees as sudden horror flared in his mind's eye.

Elladan gripped his arm in solace. "The Orcs paid for what they did. Then we had to tend to Beleg, of course. We heard wolves howling and feared the Orcs would return. We retreated to the southeast, to a secluded valley that we will show you tomorrow. There we cared for Beleg till he could ride, and we buried Arathorn, away from the Orcs' foul dens." He gazed far and wide with his keen eyes. "I see no threats now. But so we thought then. It is a dangerous place. Tomorrow we will bring you to the spot where he died, but we must not linger there. Even without horses we risk being seen, if there are enemies about."

"Nevertheless we must find out what we can while we are here," Aragorn said. "Halbarad and I mean to continue east into the mountains to join the Rangers later in the autumn. They will be scouting through the mountains and we hope to add our findings to the plan to move against the Orcs."

They stayed that night in the shelter of a grove of stumpy trees a mile from the edge of the promontory. The stars bloomed in the cloudless sky, with no moon to blunt their glory. Low in the west hung Gil-Estel, the star of Eärendil, a bluish glow to its flame.

Elladan raised his carved wooden cup. "Our forefather watches still. Let us greet him, and drink to our lost ones."

Aragorn joined the others in a salute. Only the sizzle of the fire broke the silence—too silent, Aragorn thought, for a night in the wilderness. At last Halbarad spoke in a low voice. "You must take some comfort in knowing your mother, at least, is now healed in the Blessed Land."

Elrohir shrugged, a gesture of sadness and resignation. "We hope so, certainly. But we don't _know_ , unless you count faith, or trust, as knowing. It is like death that way. No one returns."

A spark of challenge lit Halbarad's eyes. "Surely not. You know you will see her again."

"Will we?" asked Elladan. "Not all are called to the West, and for us, as _peredhel_ , it is even more unsure. Do not forget that we carry the blood of the Secondborn."

Aragorn recognized the lines of fierce sorrow about Elrohir's mouth as he said, "Not all are called. Many will not go—so our mother's father says of himself. The ban still lies on our mother's mother, and all of our family has suffered from the doom of Mandos. If it were not for the courage of Eärendil, we all would long ago have found the grave. Dior, slain by the sons of Fëanor. His sons, left to starve in the woods by Celegorm's cruel servants. It is only by our grandfather's fate that we have the life of the Eldar. But will that include the call to the West? I do not know."

Stirring in surprise, Aragorn watched his brothers' faces closely. He had rarely heard them speak so. But Halbarad said, "I don't understand. Surely you have the grace of the Elves."

"We are _peredhel_ ," said Elrohir, speaking the word with slow emphasis. "By the laws of the One, we would have been born mortal but for the choice given to our father through his own father. As it is, we too have that choice. Although I don't know if 'choice' is the right word. Rather it is what calls to our hearts. I do not know if, when it comes to it, I would leave Middle-earth. I question whether our people should ever have gone across the sea." He lowered his head, the shadows hiding his bright eyes.

"Then you will join your grandmother in exile forever?" asked Halbarad.

"Rather, I believe, we will die as Men do," Elladan said. "We and our sister."

Aragorn swung his gaze to his brother's face, lit golden by the fire. Elrohir remained hidden in the shadows. "You never told me that."

A faint smile softened Elladan's face. "We don't talk of it, Estel. But it's time that you knew."

_They tell me for Arwen's sake. They tell me why she has turned from me. Could she truly think I would want her death?_

But Halbarad exclaimed, "Your sister! I didn't know you had a sister. Idhril did not mention her, nor Aragorn, either."

A smile tugged again at the edge of Elladan's mouth. "Arwen Undómiel she is called. She's rarely in Rivendell, and few Men even know of her. But if you saw her, you would never forget her. She has the face of Lúthien, or so they say, those who knew the daughter of Melian in the Elder Days."

_The face of Lúthien. The fate of Lúthien? Is that why she fled from me?_ Aragorn tried to stop his mouth, but he had to speak. "She did not tell me."

Elladan watched him, but said nothing.

"Did she ask you to tell me this?"

"No, Estel. She is as silent about you as you have been about her."

In the shadows Elrohir stirred, and knowing the two of them as he did, Aragorn gathered there had been a disagreement. Dismay, sorrow, love, anger—all moiled in his heart. _Arwen! Never would I ask such a thing. Forgive me, I did not understand._ He wanted to cry out with anguish, but the sight of Halbarad's eyes fixed on his face pressed him to silence.

Halbarad nodded briefly and then turned to Elladan. "I hope to meet the Lady Arwen some day, and see for myself if she is truly as beautiful as you say."

Relieved by Halbarad's interruption, Aragorn stared into the fire, seeking he knew not what in the glowing embers. Unable to keep still, he rose suddenly and stalked out into the night. He did not go far—even this distress could not negate the caution that ceaseless training had drilled into him. He leaned against the trunk of a tree and looked up into the sky, his whole being filled with memories of her—her impossibly beautiful wrists, the silky skin of the inside of her thighs, the intoxicating scent of her hair, the taste of her sweet mouth.

_That beauty to grow old and die as Men do? Never._

A musical voice called, "Estel!" and a gentle hand touched his arm.

"Elladan."

Her brother's face caught the starlight as hers did. He smiled softly. "You did not hear me come. Sharpen your ears, little brother."

Aragorn laughed shortly. It was an old joke between them, from the days of training the young Estel. For a while they stood together in the still of the night. "Elladan, what am I to do?" he cried in misery.

"I cannot advise you, except—" He fell silent.

"Except?"

"Wait."

"What do you mean?"

"Just that. Wait. Time changes many things."

Aragorn shook his head. "My feelings will not change."

"Maybe not, but that is not what I meant."

"I don't understand you."

"That, too, may change."

And he refused to say any more.

oOo

"Here is where Arathorn met his death." Elrohir stood on an expanse of grey rock; he cocked his head. "The earth remembers. I hear its voice, mourning the blood and the loss. For all that the sorcerer took this land, its heart belongs to the Dúnedain."

Aragorn stood still and silent on the spot where his father had died, hoping that memories would come at last. In his hands he held the broken remnant of Narsil, the heirloom of the House of Isildur. "Tell me how it happened."

"The Orcs came from there, a crevice around the bend. About a dozen. Some died at Beleg's hand before we reached Arathorn. Did he tell you about it?"

Aragorn shook his head. "He doesn't remember, and when I asked him, he became so distressed that I did not ask again, even about the journey."

"Yes, Hallor said that too," Elrohir cupped his chin and frowned, "now that you mention it. It's odd that Beleg hasn't yet visited us in Rivendell. Talking with us might help him, and my father's skill could certainly ease his distress."

"The acting chieftain has given him leave, and he keeps saying he will go," Halbarad said. "But we are pressed, as usual. Some day, I'm sure he will come."

"That would be excellent, for we loved him, too, as a dear friend. He and Arathorn together were deadly in battle. I'll never forget their deeds on that fateful sortie in Mirkwood, when Beleg took on the lieutenant from Dol Guldur. They still talk about it in Thranduil's halls. This lieutenant had been the bane of southern Mirkwood for more years than even an Elf can count, and Beleg managed to wound him. Not to kill him, for I don't even know if that can be done to such a being."

"What is he? A Ringwraith?"

"We don't know," Elladan said. "But surely no Ringwraith. He appears to be a Man, but he must know the dark arts, like the sorcerer that dwelt here in Rhudaur during the time of Angmar. Maybe he is the same one—who can say? The Elves in Mirkwood believe he can change his form. Sauron has a number of such evil-doers in his service, and they use the dark arts to prolong life. Now they are gathered in Mordor itself, and, perversely, there is a strange quiet in Mirkwood. For a little while. Thranduil knows it will not last, and keeps ever sharper watch." He looked up at the sky. "The sun is sinking, and we must move on. It's perilous to linger here."

For half a day they returned the way that they had come, and then turned sharply east into a narrow cleft where a trickle of water darkened the rocky floor. As they followed its course it grew in width and depth, and soon became a proper stream and then a small river. The cleft widened into a deep valley filled with small trees, brush and vines, protected from the harsh eastern winds blowing from the Misty Mountains.

They trudged deeper into the valley, following the stream. Elladan said, "We are nearing the outlying areas of the Ettenmoors here. If you follow this way for two days, you will meet the Hoardale. We battled the forces of Angmar there many years ago, when the Witch-king launched his attack on Rivendell. If you truly mean to go that way, take extra caution. Wights still dwell in ruins from the old days, and the hill folk do not like strangers."

Halbarad nodded. "We know. But my father is sending more Rangers into the mountains as well, we hope to join up with them at the Refuge. Those Uruks had to come from somewhere."

Elladan's face darkened; Aragorn recognized the feral grimace of the hunt. "We have to leave you in a few days to meet our father, but when we're free, we'll return and join you for the kill."

Coming upon a grove of slender white birches, Elrohir turned among the trees to a small dell, grown over with coarse brush and wildflowers. Without hesitation the twin brothers stopped at a patch of nodding daisies. A break in the leaf cover let in the sunlight, glinting on their yellow faces. "Here, but the stone is covered now," said Elladan.

They dug with sticks to find the marker, buried in a shallow fall of leaves and dark earth, where the daisies smiled. The warm scent of the earth and the early autumn flowers hovered in the air. The others stood back when its edge came into view, and Aragorn knelt down in the rich earth and swept the stone clean with his hands. Two glyphs had been scratched into the rock: AA. He was silent for a long time. Then he rose and said to his companions, "I asked my mother once if she wished for me to return his bones. I would do it if she wished, but she said no. A warrior belongs near the field of battle where he fell, however remote or lonely it may be."

The others nodded in silence. Aragorn embraced his foster brothers. "You chose a good place. Thank you."

"We could not leave him near the Orcs," Elrohir said. "This valley is a place fit for a man to dwell, at least for a little while. You will find small game here, and there is the stream for water. About a half mile further it widens into a pool where you can fish. We stayed here for a while, then, until Beleg was stronger."

"Tell me what the Orcs did to his body."

Elrohir shook his head. "No, Estel, you don't want to know that."

"I do. If I had been here, it would have been my place as his son to bury him. You have done it in my stead, but I want to see it with your eyes. And as you well know, I have no illusions about Orcs."

So they told him in as few words as possible, and he listened white-faced and shaken, for all the preparation he had made in his mind. Halbarad cried out and hid his face in his hands.

oOo

A short distance from the grave, on the shores of the stream, they set up a simple camp, making a small shelter and stockpiling provisions and firewood. They placed traps and snares around the narrow valley to catch what meat they could, and foraged for early autumn fruits and roots. That evening Elrohir roasted trout, a welcome change from waybread and dried meat.

"Good fish, this." Halbarad licked the juices from his fingers. "And in celebration, I declare that no sad stories shall be told tonight."

His eyes alight, Elladan laughed. "I suspect I know what you want to hear instead."

Dismayed, Aragorn suspected he knew, too. "No."

"Oh, yes. It's time." Halbarad rubbed his hands together. "Tell me everything."

Elladan and Elrohir grinned at each other. Aragorn groaned; he knew that glee only too well.

Elladan began, "Let's just say that in the last two years, since a certain person left, a deep quiet has settled on the House of Elrond."

"Dull as a Dwarf dirge," muttered Elrohir.

"Young Estel, now—truth be told, he turned the whole valley upside down," Elladan said. "I was astonished at how much trouble a small child could make, but that was nothing to the exploits of a growing boy. There was the climbing stage."

"Up on the roof every day," Elrohir said. "Gilraen would rant and wail and beg him to come down. Very disobedient child."

Elladan said, "Then he fell. Broke an arm. That slowed him down a bit."

"Not much," Elrohir said. "Erestor might have some rose bushes left if that were so."

"Rose bushes?" Halbarad asked, raising his eyebrows at Aragorn.

Aragorn shrugged. "You will hear nothing from me."

"Yes, rose bushes," Elladan said. "He attacked the garden with his wooden sword, and whacked the roses to pieces. Our father said, 'Estel, why?'—a question many asked, many times, over these turbulent years, may I say—'why the roses, Erestor's pride and joy?'"

Halbarad chuckled. "I can't begin to guess."

"The lilies and irises were too flimsy, and the trees too big, he told us solemnly," Elrohir said, rolling his eyes. "A good workout means sparring with an opponent of equal skill."

Halbarad choked.

"At least the training proved some good. He is tolerable with a blade." Elrohir's eyes danced. "We didn't have so much luck training him to the bow. Then he stole Glorfindel's horse."

"And lived to tell the tale," Elladan said. "Although I nearly didn't."

"There was the pretend training, of course, where Estel killed our brother."

"Fortunately, I was revived," Elrohir said. "Good thing, too, because I would have missed the next few years, and they were not to be missed."

"But the best part—"

Aragorn cleared his throat. "You can stop now."

"—the best part was when his whiskers began to grow," said Elladan, sliding across the ground away from Aragorn, who assumed a not-entirely pretended glower.

Halbarad grinned. "The only beard in the valley?"

"Just so," said Elrohir. "So enticing to the maidens! Our Estel did not remain a virgin very long."

"Be quiet," Aragorn hissed.

"You never breathed a word of this," said Halbarad accusingly.

"Discretion is the Elvish way," said Aragorn, "although you would never know it by the example these two set."

"Just a bit of brotherly teasing, Estel."

Aragorn began to laugh. "The three of you! I should have known better than to travel to the middle of nowhere with such a group."

Elladan threw a twig at him. "You deserve it." Elrohir jumped on him and pushed him to the ground as they began one of the brotherly wrestling matches that once were daily events in Rivendell. "Halbarad!" Aragorn said, still laughing "Take the other one!"

After a bout of rough-housing the four of them caught their breath, and Halbarad said, "How do you tell them apart, anyway?"

"Oh, it's easy when you know them. This one tormented me endlessly as a boy, and he took over when I got older."

oOo

Elladan and Elrohir left three days later. "We promised to escort our father," Elladan said, but he would not say where. Aragorn knew better than to press him.

As he had expected, Halbarad wasted little time to bring up the subject of Arwen. As they prepared their midday meal, he said, "All right, out with it."

Aragorn did not pretend to misunderstand him. _What shall I tell him? About the rosy tips of her fingers that I could kiss all night? Her warm laugh?_ "What do you want to know?"

"How long has this been going on?"

"Nothing is going on—now. She has spurned me. But to answer your question, we met just before I left Rivendell two years ago."

"I suppose it was not unrelated."

"No, in truth, it was not."

"You must marry some day, you know."

"I cannot marry her."

"Of course not."

Halbarad's ready agreement wounded his heart and pride. He lowered his eyes and winced. "Don't make it harder."

"Harder! As if you needed any help! Elrond's daughter!" Halbarad snorted. "Do you ever choose the easy way?"

Aragorn huffed a short laugh. "No, I suppose not." He looked into his friend's face. "So now you know. But truly, my friend, I do not wish to speak of it."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," grumbled Halbarad. But he held his tongue.

As the days passed, they spoke little, but at night around the fire Aragorn softly sang or chanted the ancient lays in the tongue of the High Elves. Once he returned briefly to the place of his father's death, and Halbarad followed behind in silence.

The night before they left, Aragorn brought Narsil in its worn scabbard to the grave and drew the broken, bare blade over the stone marking his father's resting place. "The Sword of Elendil, the only link I have with this man who made me what I am. I came to a grave looking for answers to unanswerable questions, I suppose."

Halbarad laid his hand on Aragorn's shoulder. "I suspect that Arathorn went looking for those answers, too, once upon a time."

"But he knew his own father, knew always who he was, knew from childhood that he would carry this sword and have this destiny. I, however—" He laughed in bitterness. "Am I Aragorn, or Estel?"

"Both," said Halbarad. He squeezed Aragorn's shoulder. "And Anborn, don't forget. And maybe a few other names as well." He grinned. "Besides being a damned nuisance."

The laughter felt good.

Aragorn knelt at the grave with Narsil gripped in his right hand. Slashing the sharp edge across his palm, Aragorn let his blood fall onto the two glyphs carved into the rock.

"Elrohir said the earth remembers his blood," he said to Halbarad. "Now may it remember the father and the son together."

oOo

That night, the dreams came back.

_The horse's fierce strength flows beneath him. He shouts a challenge to the Orcs in his path; the monster leers as he swings his studded club. Wolves howl. Then, blackness, terror, a crushing, strangling grip. He throws his arms wide and cries out, "Beleg!"_

Strong arms shook him. "Aragorn! Aragorn, wake up!"

Gasping for breath, he opened his eyes. In the dull glow of the dying embers, a dark shape loomed. He struck out.

"Aragorn, it's me, Halbarad. Wake up!"

He clutched his sweating brow and tried to quiet his racing heart. "Ai! Forgive me. More of these horrible dreams." He sat up and leaned against Halbarad's broad shoulders. He struggled to clear his mind.

"I had trouble waking you," said Halbarad. "You were screaming as if you had met death itself."

"Perhaps I did," he murmured. "Perhaps I did."

He stayed awake for the remainder of the night, staring into the night. In the morning he said, "Halbarad, it's time to go. I have found what I can find here. The rest of the tale lies elsewhere."

_Note: See "Horse Thief" in "Many Guises and Many Names" and Gwynnyd's "Lighting Fires" for more tales of Estel's childhood._


	25. Betrayal

Gilraen woke with a start, her heart thumping.

The murmurs of the night lay like a mother's caress upon the Valley, the crooning of the wakeful Elves blending with the hoots of the night owl and the peeping music of the frogs. She listened closely. The Elves sang the hymn to the rising Sun. Dawn approached.

Why then this night terror? She knew the signs. She had known all her life that she carried within her some of her mother's Sight. To her own dread. She had not her mother's steadfast serenity in embracing the gift.

She rose from her bed, threw a light robe over her gown and drew slippers onto her feet. She stepped softly through the passageway and crept down the broad, shallow stairway to the front hall, where the triple doors led to the courtyard before Elrond's House. A lantern burned on the step, casting a circle of light that did not reach the faces of the men before her. But she knew by their shadowed figures that two Rangers stood there, one in quiet conference with Lord Erestor; the other—a youth, judging by his lanky shape and lesser height—waited somewhat apart.

The Ranger turned at her approach and bowed his head. "Lady Gilraen."

"Hawk!" Laughing, she embraced him, road dust and all, and kissed his scratchy cheek. "Welcome!"

Hawk reached his arm out to the youth standing behind him. "This is Rodnor, my grandson."

Rodnor murmured respectful and unintelligible words.

"Welcome, Rodnor. I am honored to meet one of my people. But tell me, what brings you to Rivendell?"

Hawk's face grew grave. Erestor stepped forward. "May I suggest that we go into the house and discuss this over some refreshment."

Her heart resumed its thumping, and she had a flash of terror for her son. But she smiled at Hawk and asked after her parents, her brother and his wife and children. "All well, lady," he murmured, inclining his noble head in respect.

In the comfortable sitting room on the ground floor, Erestor revived the banked fire against the early morning chill. With a nod and a smile of greeting to Gilraen, the kitchen maid Luinwen set down a tray of food from the kitchen, and laid mugs, pitchers of hot tea and warm nut cakes on the low table before the fire. Erestor sat in a great carved chair, and Gilraen took a seat on a pillowed bench beside him. Hawk motioned his grandson to a stool and sat on the bench beside Gilraen. Luinwen poured tea, and they drank.

"Now," said Erestor, "begin again for the sake of Lady Gilraen."

Hawk looked up from his warm mug, grasped between both rugged hands. "Ill news, my lady, but do not fear for your son. He has met with no harm, as far as we know."

"But you have heard no word?"

"We would not expect to, yet. He and Halbarad planned to scout the lands from the valley where your lord husband's grave lies, on the way to meet us at our Refuge at Dol Draug. Even if they had reached the other Rangers sooner than planned, the news would have to travel to us at the Angle. No, it is Damrod who has met with ill fortune. Slain in the mountains by a party of Orcs."

Gilraen pressed her hands to her mouth. "I did not know him, but I know too well the grief."

Hawk nodded. "He was just reaching the prime of his young manhood, even as Aragorn. But there is worse to tell. We believe we are finally on the trail of the servants of the Enemy, those who sent that party of Uruks near the Angle last year. Tales have reached us from the hill folk of raids against their flocks, and they speak of evil spirits in the land. Scouts say Orcs have moved south from Gundabad. My grandson and I are on our way to join the Rangers at the Refuge. Beleg commands there now. Iorlas and Ingold are even now preparing to lead a troop on horse from the Weather Hills, and Túrin's men are guarding the way from Gundabad in the north. We must rout out these Orcs before they have taken hold. I only hope we are not too late."

Erestor said, "Our scouts have also seen this, and we will send Elves to patrol the pass and the far side of the mountains, or to join you at the Refuge, if you will."

"I most wished to ask the counsel of Elrond, but you say he is not here?"

"No, nor his sons, nor Glorfindel." Erestor spoke in that firm tone that Gilraen recognized as signifying a refusal to answer further questions. Indeed, she herself did not know where the Master of Rivendell had gone. In her heart, she suspected he had gone to Lothlórien to visit his daughter, who had returned there to live with her mother's kin. _May she long remain there, out of the sight of my son._

Hawk sighed. "Well, then, we will do our best without his advice."

Erestor stood up. "Baths and beds have been made ready for you, and a meal will be prepared. You should rest and eat before we make our plans."

"I thank you."

Erestor rose and bowed and withdrew from the room, but Hawk remained at Gilraen's side, staring at the fire with frowning brows. The boy began to climb awkwardly to his feet, but Hawk stopped him with a commanding hand.

"What, no bed, no bath?" Gilraen chided.

Hawk turned his fierce eyes to her face. "I have something to tell you."

Her heart was like an icy sword piercing her chest. She waited in silence.

"Daeron has deserted his post."

Fear bloomed like a weed in her mind. "A traitor."

Hawk scrubbed at his beard with one nervous hand. "All we know is that he quarreled with Túrin, arguing that the command should move to the South. Túrin denied him, and he was gone the next day. It was Damrod who brought the news to the Refuge."

"Where is this deserter now?"

"We don't know. He vanished as if the earth had swallowed him; even our best trackers can't find him. I fear the worst, my lady."

"If he is turned traitor, he will try to kill my son again. I know it."

"Think beyond even that dread thing. If he is turned traitor, he will reveal all our secrets to the enemy, including the way to Thurnost."

She covered her face in her hands. _Blood, death, terror. All my loved ones, all the children, all our hope. Estel._ "You must find him. This time, put him to death."

"You are hard, lady."

She clasped her hands in her lap. "All my pity left me when I heard of his murderous attack on my son."

Hawk huffed in chagrin. "Aragorn had the opposite reaction, and he convinced even me, who believed the worst. And, as I think you know, there are some who question Aragorn's story."

"I know it well, and I am ashamed of my own people for it. Do they now blame him that a traitor is loose?" she cried bitterly.

"There's no time for blame. We must find him, even if it is only a corpse that we find."

Gathering her strength, she rose, holding her arms straight and close to her body in determination. "Then, Captain Hawk, we had best get busy and prepare."

But in her quarters, alone with her fears, she could not keep the tears from coming, thinking of her son at his father's grave, of the threat that now hung over them all. Even after all that had happened, she did not want to believe that Daeron was a traitor. Flashes of memory came to her—his shy face when first they acknowledged their betrothal; his gentle respect. He had never even dared to kiss her, only to hold her hand in a kind of amazed rapture. Long ago, with shame, she had acknowledged, if only to herself, that his admiration had gone to her young head, and she had acted as if she felt more than she did. _But I didn't even know that myself—until Arathorn showed me what real love is._

She had, of course, not been present when her father told Daeron the betrothal was broken. She had not even known that Arathorn had asked for her. _So young I was, so dazzled with his attentions._

She had known nothing of the duel between her two suitors until Beleg ran into the Keep, shouting for the healer. Arathorn had put out Daeron's eye in a challenge. Even then, the murmurs had gone around Thurnost: _Daeron dared raise arms against the Chieftain's son! Our law forbids it._

But Arador insisted that the man had been punished enough. And Arathorn came to her and said, "You are mine now." When he touched her, her very bones melted within her body.

Trembling, her face burning with memory, she dressed in her working clothes, a huge apron covering all, a cloth wrapped around her braided hair. In the kitchen she found the cooks already at work. Luinwen was covered in flour as she made waybread for the party going to war. _For war it is, though the numbers be small, our very lives are at stake._ In silence she took her place.

All that day, and the next, they gathered supplies, packed, consulted maps, and planned. She drew the youth, Rodnor, to her as a helper and mothered him as if he were Estel returned to childhood.

Hawk laughed, "You will quite put him off. He yearns for manhood, that one, like any lad of sixteen."

But Gilraen knew better. His mother, Hawk's daughter, had died when he was but a babe, he told her, and she saw the wistfulness in his eyes. She knew, too, that his twin brother had died horribly in the Troll hunt, though Rodnor did not speak of it. She gave him a warm cloak that her son had worn before he grew out of it, and for the celebration of music and poetry that night, she dressed Rodnor in a handsome embroidered tunic of dark blue, and took his arm as they walked to the Hall of Fire. As she had expected, he sat in silent awe and enchantment as the song rose and fell with the thrumming harps and melodic flutes of the ancient Elvish lays.

Lately—she knew quite well why—songs of Beren and Lúthien had fallen out of favor in Rivendell. But Lindir had composed a new song about the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the last stand of Maedhros and Maglor against the might of Angband, when the sons of Ulfang the Easterling went over to Morgoth and betrayed the hopes of the Elves and the Edain.

Gilraen closed her eyes and whispered to herself the words from the ancient tale. _Yet neither by wolf, nor by Balrog, nor by Dragon, would Morgoth have achieved his end, but for the treachery of Men._ Sorrow washed over her like a cold winter rain.

oOo

The beauty of the music convinced Rodnor that it must be true that Elvish minstrels could bring their songs to life before the eyes of their listeners.

Maybe he could ask them to sing about Rodnion.

Rodnor hoped that he did not look as dazed as he felt: like a child in a wonderland of treats. No, like a mere mortal kneeling before the thrones of the Valar, or so he imagined. Indeed, while the Elves all treated him kindly, he could not shake off a shadow of fear. They were so _strange._ Some had eyes like fire burned their spirits. _Inhuman_ , he thought, and laughed at himself. _Of course they are inhuman._ They did not die, did not sicken, did not wither with age, like the lady Saelind had done. Even when their bodies died, their spirits still lived in this world. _Ghosts._ How had Aragorn grown up here? He must ask him about it.

Over the course of the few days in Rivendell, he managed, he thought, to avoid falling into childish awe and dread—until the day he and his grandfather gathered with Erestor to consult about their journey. The map itself was enough to make his jaw drop: A piece of parchment larger than any he had ever seen, even in the Commons, and covered with inks of red, gold, blue and black, of a delicacy and grace beyond his imagination.

Hawk drummed his broad fingers upon the table. "You say the scouts will return from the eastern slopes within the next two days?"

"I expect them, yes," Erestor answered. "Their reports will be worth carrying to the Rangers at the Refuge."

"We will wait till then to leave," Hawk said. "Show me the path they have taken."

Erestor's long, slender finger traced the trail up to the High Pass and beyond. "Their plan is to turn north to the Rhimdath, then cross the mountains again and return along the lower slopes to the Valley, one of the ways you may go. If there is any sign of the enemy in those lands, they will know."

Hawk scratched at his grey-bearded cheek. "We should have asked for a rendezvous at Wolf's Head. But it is too late now."

Erestor shook his elegant head. "Our captain does not know your secret. I myself have not been there since before the time of Aranarth."

Rodnor exclaimed, "What—Aranarth—you mean—" He shuddered at the eyes full of light that the Elf lord turned to his face.

"Yes, I fought with the first Rangers, the Dúnedain of Arthedain," Erestor said gravely, "dwelling at the Refuge to spy on and harry the forces of Rhudaur. Our hideout was never discovered by the forces of Angmar, so well is it hidden at Wolf's Head, even during the final battle when Rivendell itself was besieged. Elves and Men fought and died side by side then."

Rodnor could feel his face turning red. He said nothing in his embarrassment, but he could not take his eyes away from the Elf lord's bright eyes. Erestor smiled. "My memory goes back to Doriath and the court of Thingol and Melian. I was among the last who fled with the princess Elwing, Elrond's mother, when the sons of Fëanor slew our lord Dior and the princes were taken. It is not always the Great Enemy who we fight, alas."

Rodnor shivered under the scrutiny of those ancient eyes. _Can he read my mind? Does he see how afraid I am?_

His grandfather glared at him, one fierce eyebrow raised, and, clearing his throat, turned back to the map. "The only good bit of news is that Daeron was never posted there, so he does not know the way. But now the name of Wolf's Head, Dol Draug, will be known to the Enemy. We do not know how long we will remain safe, nor how far back his treason goes."

Rodnor swallowed the lump in his throat as the memory of his grandfather's words flashed in his mind: _He will reveal all our secrets to the Enemy, including the way to Thurnost._ How could a Ranger betray his own people, foreswear his oath pledged for his rayed star? Daeron had always worn his with such pride. _Even the Elves can turn against their people, and Erestor remembers it. Is that so different from going over to the Enemy? How can I trust anyone?_

That night, their last in Rivendell, Rodnor lay long sleepless in bed, staring at the faint stars through the window. He hoped that he, too, would fight and die bravely when the time came.

oOo

The land lay eerily quiet and bleak as Hawk and Rodnor wound their way through the rocky downs north of Rivendell. After climbing out of the Valley along the road to the High Pass, they turned west, away from the mountains, to trudge through the fells, grassy rolling ridges dotted with boulders and trees gnarled by the wind from the north. There was no sign of living creatures beyond the spoor and tracks of wild animals. They saw no people and no evidence that Men had ever lived in this land, until, on the fourth day, they stumbled upon the ancient remains of a road, now crumbled stone amid the bright grasses and falling leaves of autumn. A narrow earthen track lay beside it, worn by the feet of shepherds and their flocks, for this land, once called Rhudaur, the third kingdom of the Northern Dúnedain until it fell under the power of the Sorcerer, now belonged to the hill folk—or what remained of them.

Their pace quickened as they followed the trail, looking sharply for signs of recent passage. But no signs of Men's campfires, nor foraging nor dung of their beasts, were to be seen.

That night, Rodnor woke to see his grandfather standing silent and stern, staring into the night. Rodnor sat up, and saw fire leaping into a blaze in the north.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"I don't know," said Hawk grimly. "It may only be the dry grass ablaze. But we must go there and find out."

At the first light of dawn, they struck out at a quickened pace, making for the white smoke that now plumed over the far hills. For half a day they trudged toward the drifting smoke, until a chill autumn rain began to fall. Rodnor wrapped his cloak around him to block the wind, shielding his face with the deep hood.

The reek of the smoking ruins hit him first: the stench of thatch, wood, and flesh. Hawk loosened his sword in its scabbard, and Rodnor tightened the buckles on his oiled leather jerkin and strung his bow. They circled to the north of the place where the remnants of the fire smoldered under the rain. They peered through the shelter of the thick brush, hung with yellowing leaves and black with soot, and saw what remained of a shepherds' settlement: Ruined heaps of burnt huts, three in all, a sodden burnt field of unharvested grain, and over all, the stink of smoldering embers and wet ash. At the edge of the beaten track into the settlement lay three dead Orcs, their foul hides bristling with arrows. Beside the first heap of ash lay the body of an old woman, still and ghastly in her death.

They crept along the shelter of a stone wall and peered cautiously over it. One of the enemy still remained. A mountain Orc limped through the cinders, its snouted face distorted with rage, one arm dangling useless at its side. Its blood shone black on its greenish scales. It snarled and muttered, "Leave me here, will ya, scum? I'll see to that!" It kicked the old woman's body. "Only a dried up old biddy, and you took all the sheep."

Hawk caught Rodnor's eye and jerked his beard to the right. Rodnor nodded and crept along the ground till he reached the crumbled end of the low wall, waiting for his captain's signal. With a savage shout Hawk heaved a rock toward the Orc, and at the same moment, as the Orc's head turned sharply toward the sound, Rodnor rose in one smooth movement and shot an arrow through the lumpish body. Even before the surprise could register on his hideous face, he fell to the ground.

Hawk leaped to the creature's side and pressed his knife under the long chin.

"Tarks," the Orc spit. "You can kill me, but more will come. You're doomed."

Hawk pushed his knife into the beast's scaly neck. "I'll hang you by your entrails unless you talk."

In what followed, Rodnor found strength in remembering his brother's shattered body, mangled in the Troll's jaws. _Now I seek revenge._ But the Orc gave them nothing but his slow death. As the last breaths rattled through the monster's throat, Hawk stood up, cast his knife to the ground, and cursed. Sweat dripped down his face. Rodnor could not look at him.

Hawk grunted in disgust. "Come, boy, let's leave this hellish spot."

"The old woman? Should we not bury her?" Rodnor asked. He had covered the still face with a scrap of cloth.

"No time," said Hawk harshly. "And we do not know their rites."

An oppressive silence lay like fog across the land. As Rodnor followed Hawk across the rugged trail, he hummed soundless tunes to shake the horrors out of his head. _I am a man now. It is not as glorious as I had imagined._

Suddenly long, deep howls broke the dead gloom. Hawk stopped in his tracks and drew his sword, thrusting his other hand back to stop Rodnor. A swift, low shape moved through the scrubby trees. Fear running through his body, Rodnor strung his bow.

But when the grey beast leaped through the dark trees, his arrow missed. The lean, fell animal flew through the air, a huge red maw lined with yellow teeth snarling and slavering. Hawk fell to the ground, the beast clamping its jaws around his arm. His sword falling from his hand, Hawk pounded the creature with his fist.

Screaming and sobbing, Rodnor leaped at the beast and began to thrust with his dagger into the thick hide. His blade could not penetrate the grey fur, reeking of smoke and blood.

"Run, boy!" shouted Hawk as the wolf's jaws reached for his throat.

But Rodnor stabbed at the beast's neck, seeking an entry to the flesh. As he lifted his arm for another blow, yet another shape moved through the trees.

A man leaped at them, his face grimacing in rage, his empty eye socket twitching as he swung his glittering blade.


	26. Beleg's Tale

For seven days Aragorn and Halbarad trudged eastward as the mountains grew from a blue smudge on the horizon to grey, pointed teeth biting into the sky. To the near north, Dol Draug blocked their sight of the range behind it: the low ridges that guarded the way to Angmar.  
  
They passed through the rocky terrain with the stealth befitting Rangers of the North. As they drew nearer to Dol Draug, they began to make the whistling signal that would alert the Rangers to their coming. But no answering call came. Anxiously, Aragorn scanned the slopes and the dark glades, but he saw not one sign of the others. _Surely_ _they_ _have_ _spotted_ _us_ _by_ _now_? _The_ _scouts_ _should_ _be_ _watching_. Unease prickled at the back of his neck.  
  
At last they began to climb the lower slopes of Wolf’s Head. When the signal finally came, Aragorn jumped like a startled cat and grabbed his sword hilt. Halbarad seized his already-strung bow.  
  
“Hold,” whispered Aragorn.  
  
A shadow moved in the trees ahead. A figure shrouded in the dark green cloak and hood of a Ranger and armed with a spear stepped into their path. A gloved hand reached up to fling back the hood: Beleg stood before them, his smooth face lit with a serene smile, incongruous in that dark place. “Well met at last, my friends!”  
  
“You have been slow enough about answering us,” said Halbarad angrily. His arm carrying the bow dropped to his side. “Where are the others?”  
  
Beleg lifted a finger to his lips and murmured, “We will speak later. Follow me.” He turned abruptly to the right. He hoisted his spear on his shoulder and gave them one glance with his bright eyes before he slipped down a path below a shelf of rock, shadowed with dark, thick pine trees.  
  
The questions died on their lips as Aragorn and Halbarad exchanged worried looks. Halbarad snorted and spoke low. “I do not like this place. Let’s hope that underground it seems safer and more friendly.” He hoisted his pack onto his broad back and passed through the trees behind Beleg. Aragorn strode quickly in his wake.  
  
The afternoon was swiftly dimming into evening as they followed the narrow track, climbing up a series of switchbacks through the gloomy trees. The murky silence weighed on Aragorn like a bad dream. He trained his eyes on the slope below and stepped quietly, looking and listening for any sign of movement. His anxiety grew.  
  
Full dark had fallen before Beleg bent and disappeared as if the rocky face had swallowed him. “Come,” he called to them. Stooping, they saw a low entrance into the side of the mountain. Inside Beleg had lit a torch, the only light in that dark cavern. Myriad passages bore into the rocky walls, some at foot-level, some above their heads, some reached by leaping half a man’s height down to a gravelly slope that ran to their left. Beleg again turned abruptly, but Aragorn called out. “Some bearings, Beleg. What is this place, and what has happened?”  
  
“This is the main way into the Refuge, my friend,” said Beleg. “Most of the passages meander to nowhere, and an enemy dies of hunger and thirst before he can escape, or to a chasm where he will fall into the bowels of the earth. Our safety lies in our knowledge of the only real way. Follow me.”  
  
He disappeared behind a lip of rock, the light casting its beam on the dark wall above. Aragorn and Halbarad followed the light, and found that the way climbed in wide curves toward the summit of the mountain. Every so often Beleg would turn into another passage, and soon Aragorn lost any sense of direction. Climber ever higher, they walked at least two miles by Aragorn’s estimate before the passage opened up—or so he judged from the cool air that suddenly freshened his face.  
  
Beleg lit more torches to reveal a cavern fitted out with weapons and provisions, a huge hearth at the far wall. “Welcome to the Refuge of Wolf’s Head,” Beleg said with a brief bow. His eyes caught the glitter of the torches. “You can share the sleeping alcove over here where it’s warmest, or will be when I light the fire. I sleep at the guard post near the eastern passage.”  
  
“And where does that lead?” Aragorn asked.  
  
“To hidden doors on the eastern slope, just at the tip of the wolf’s snout. The doors open easily from within, but no one can open them from without. And the way down is steep and long.”  
  
Uneasy, Aragorn looked around at the wide but low space, walls hung with shields, spears and hunting gear. Dried meats, barrels of foodstuffs, stacks of firewood and furs filled the storage alcoves lining the main hall. A stream splashed from the wall into a basin of water. The Refuge was equipped for two dozen men, by his rough guess, but no one else was there.  
  
His eye fell on a neat pile on a bench beside the now-burning hearth: a folded, stained cloak, a bow and quiver, a belt and pouch, and, atop all, a lute. Aragorn had last seen that very instrument in Malbeth’s hands when he would carefully polish and oil before playing its soft music in the lonely nights around the Rangers’ small fire. “Malbeth’s lute?” Fear iced his heart. “Where is he?”  
  
Halbarad had seen it too. With a sharp exclamation of dismay he picked it up and smoothed his rough hands across the wood. “Where are the others?” His harsh, sharp voice hit Aragorn’s ears in sudden dread. “Where is Malbeth? Where is Damrod?”  
  
Beleg turned toward them, his face half in shadow. “I am here alone. They are dead. Damrod was killed, oh, some time ago now. Malbeth was killed last week.”  
  
“Dead!” Halbarad’s cry was tight and hoarse. “Killed! How?”  
  
Aragorn could only stare in pain at Beleg’s smooth, beardless face, which suddenly disgusted him. _How_ _can_ _he_ _find_ _the_ _time_ _and_ _the_ _will_ _to_ _shave_ , _here_ , _amid_ _this_ _death_?  
  
“Orcs killed Damrod in the mountains weeks ago. You wouldn’t have heard about it on your journey. Goenor found him and brought the news. He went to Thurnost to tell them and get more men. We found signs of the enemy, you know, and troops on horse are to be dispatched, at least that’s what I counseled. I feel sure that Hallor will agree. As for Malbeth, I don’t know, I found him dead, an arrow in his back, near the summit where he had gone to spy the lands below.”  
  
“And no sign of who had done it?” Halbarad cried. “No enemy about? How can that be?”  
  
“I have seen smoke in the old fortress and fires at night,” Beleg said, a shadow of pain passing across his face, but his voice was emotionless. “It’s as if Angband were reborn. But no creatures on two legs. Not yet, anyway. But I know the enemy is here. I feel him.”  
  
“There must have been tracks, something to show how Malbeth died,” Aragorn said. “What did you find?”  
  
Beleg poked at the fire. “I did not look. There’s more danger than you know.” He stood up. “Daeron’s gone to the Enemy.”  
  
Halbarad cursed. Aragorn could only stare at his father’s old friend. “I don’t believe it.”  
  
“Believe it, young one,” said Beleg. “The man is a vile traitor, eaten up with hate and envy. I always knew it.”  
  
 _But_ _you_ _said_ _no_ _such_ _thing_. Aragorn stifled the words on the tip of his tongue. “Does Hallor know of this?”  
  
“He must by now. I expect reinforcements any day. Now you are here, at least.”  
  
“You speak as if you’re in a dream, or scarce believe your own words,” Aragorn said, watching the man’s face with concern and dread. He noticed a dark cloth knotted around Beleg’s wrist. “Are you wounded yourself?”  
  
“This?” Beleg lifted his left arm, bound in a soiled bandage. “I was bitten. A lone wolf. I killed him with my knife.”  
  
“Let me see it.” Aragorn strode forward, reaching his hands toward Beleg’s bound arm.  
  
Anger flared in Beleg’s eyes, and he snatched his arm back. “Don’t touch it. I tended it myself. It’s healing.”  
  
“What foolishness to refuse my help.”  
  
“Perhaps, but I do so all the same.” The fierce light began to die in his eyes. “Don’t think me ungrateful or foolish. I’m very glad you’re here at last. These days have been hard. When I am so alone, I think of Ariel and the bitterness of her death is as it was the day I lost her, and our son died.” For a moment he looked as if he would say more, but then he turned abruptly back to the hearth. “There is food. Let’s eat, and then we can talk. We must make a plan.”  
  
They ate hard bread and hot soup at the rough table set before the fire. Silence ruled the meal. Beleg only stared at his dish, while Halbarad and Aragorn exchanged worried looks from time to time. Then, the food gone at last, Halbarad pulled out his pipe and weed and began to smoke.  
  
A small smile softened the dull bitterness of Beleg’s face. “You have taken up your father’s ways, I see.”  
  
Halbarad grunted. “And you? You still shun the Ranger’s best friend?”  
  
“No one can have lived in Rivendell and adopt such an uncouth habit.”  
  
Aragorn snorted. “I think not, Beleg. My father didn’t smoke pipeweed, but I’ve tried it myself, on occasion. I feel the comfort.”  
  
Beleg shrugged. “What does it matter? We have little, do we not? And less and less to come.” He bowed his head, as if weighed down by an impossible grief.  
  
“Come, my friend,” Aragorn said. “Speak to us. We, too, are grieving for our friends. Let’s avenge them, and find the truth about Daeron.”  
  
Beleg raised his haunted eyes to Aragorn’s face. “What can you know, you who are so young? For us, who have lived to see so many die, the lights go out in our lives, one by one.”  
  
Halbarad slapped his hard hand against the table. “You sound like a wailing woman and no man.”  
  
Beleg shrugged as if with no hope. “There was a time, when I was young like you, that everything seemed so full of promise. Even the stirring of the Shadow seemed only cause for joy, so reckless was I in my young pride.”  
  
Halbarad growled, and Aragorn caught his eye and silenced him with a little shake of his head. “Let him speak.”  
  
“It would relieve my heart,” Beleg said. Aragorn had never seen such sadness on his Elven-fair face. “I find myself haunted with memories in these days, as hasn’t happened in a long time. I can’t shake it. Maybe if I journey into the past….” His low voice faded, and he shuddered.  
  
Halbarad muttered something incomprehensible, but Aragorn knew from the uneasy curiosity in his eyes that he, too, wanted to hear Beleg’s words.  
  
Beleg lifted his head. “Arathorn and I—we were unstoppable in those days. No Man, Orc or even Elf could withstand our swords when we fought side by side. We traveled across Wilderland, through the vales of the River, hunting down the Enemy. And the old ones of the Dúnedain said that of all the heirs of Isildur that they had known, Arathorn showed the greatest ability—a man who had it in him to restore the kingship of the Númenoreans, as Elrond says we must, or perish forever.”  
  
“Tell me about him, and your friendship,” Aragorn said, a strange feeling fluttering in his breast.  
  
“It seems like a tale of old now,” Beleg murmured. “The greatest of our deeds was the battle at Dol Guldur that winter before we returned to Thurnost. It happened like this: for some years we lived with the Elves at Thranduil’s court, though we spent more time abroad with the scouts than in the halls of feasting. We kept the Forest Road safe and guarded caravans going west from Dale. We went to Gundabad to spy out the Orcs, and tried to find a way to bring down the dragon. I called Arathorn Túrin’s heir then—he would slay Smaug as Turambar slew Glaurung. And he would laugh, and say surely I was his Beleg.”  
  
Sighing, he stared into the gloom of the cavern. “We’d grown up hearing tales of Sauron’s return—that Gandalf had entered Dol Guldur and found out the Dark Lord indeed was there. That happened before we were born, but Argonui had not forgotten it, nor that Gandalf reported Sauron was looking for the Heir of Isildur. So Arathorn and I made it our business to do our part. We scoured Mirkwood. But it took much urging to get Thranduil to agree to attack Dol Guldur itself. Wise king, more than we knew. He spoke harshly of the other Elven realms and of the wizards, I remember. But we don’t know the councils of the Wise, and if Thranduil did, he did not say.”  
  
Beleg gazed at Aragorn. “You know, when I saw you as a man for the first time I thought you could have been Arathorn’s twin, so much do you look like your father.”  
  
“You thought I _was_ my father,” said Aragorn. “You called me by his name.”  
  
“Did I? Yes, I remember now. But now I do not see it that way. You are yourself, your own man, not just Arathorn’s son, as worthy as that is. Well, let me go on with my tale.  
  
“At last, in Mirkwood, we convinced the king to send a troop of warriors to ravage the forest around the stronghold, testing their defenses. We went with the king’s son, Legolas, and thirty other hardened warriors. All spring and summer we lived in hideouts at the periphery of that terrible tower, killing by ambush and stealth as Thranduil’s Elves do. By then Arathorn and I had learned their methods well. We killed many Orcs, and we spied them hunting us, but they never found us.  
  
“In the end we launched an assault on an outpost, and they sent more Orcs to strengthen their post. That was when we saw the Man. Dúnadan, he appeared—a Black Númenorean he must have been. He was clearly a Man of great power, and drove the Orcs into even greater depths of savagery and blind courage. We lost some of our best warriors, but our archers’ aim was also deadly.  
  
“At the height of the battle Arathorn and I crept around their left flank to draw this Man into combat. I remember his face: a chillingly beautiful face, with glittering eyes and the high brow of a Númenorean king. To see that in the face of your enemy—it hit me at the heart. But what happened, I only know from what Arathorn told me later. He said the Man attacked him first, disarmed him, and was about to dispatch him with his knife, but I threw myself between them.  
  
“I took the blade meant for Arathorn. We both would have died there, if Legolas had not come to our aid. I lost consciousness, but no one could understand why. The wound was to my side, but it did not pierce the gut, and the healer could find no reason for my faint. He feared it was poisoned, but it was not. But this wound ended our sojourn in Mirkwood. Arathorn and I returned to Thurnost, and it was months before I could go Rangering again. And ever since I have been plagued from time to time with terrible dreams.”  
  
Aragorn watched Beleg’s strained face with concern. “Didn’t you go to Rivendell to seek healing from Elrond?”  
  
Beleg seemed to be staring at some unseen thing before him, then shook himself and turned his bright eyes to Aragorn’s face. “I meant to, but something always happened to keep me away. You know what the next years brought.” He paused and clenched his hands together. “As soon as we returned to Thurnost, Arathorn fell in love with Gilraen. I was barely on my feet when the fight with Daeron happened. After that, we left Thurnost for a while, till things cooled down. Then the wedding happened, and within months Arador died at the hands of the Trolls in the coldfells, south of here. I was there on that terrible day too. ” He shuddered and passed his hand across his eyes. “Then you were born, and I married Ariel just a month later. Then Arathorn himself was killed as we rode with the sons of Elrond. And Gilraen fled with the Heir of Isildur, and we were no longer on speaking terms with Rivendell. As you know.”  
  
Even in the dim evening light Aragorn could see his face was drained of all color. “Get some rest, Beleg. We are here now, and you can rest with no fear. Halbarad and I will watch tonight.”  
  
Beleg stared at him, then opened his mouth as if to speak. But instead the lids of his eyes dropped over his bright eyes, and he turned silently away.  
  
Aragorn waited until Beleg’s graceful form had disappeared into the dark of the cavern, and all sounds of movement had vanished. And then he met Halbarad’s eyes and said in a low voice, “Something is very wrong here.”  
  
Halbarad grimaced. “Every instinct tells me we should flee. This place is not safe, and Beleg is mad. I don’t believe a thing he’s told us. We have only his word.”  
  
“It’s clear he cannot judge for himself. He wanders in the past and seems blind to the present. We must lead him, Halbarad.”  
  
“Is it the arts of the Enemy? Is the very air poisoned?”  
  
“I know no more than you. All I know is that we can only trust each other. In the morning, we must leave, and drag him with us, if necessary. Perhaps it’s the shock of the solitude and the deaths of Malbeth and Damrod.” Aragorn passed a hand through his tangled hair. “I can scarce believe it, not that we don’t face such deaths every day. But they were our own age.”  
  
“I knew them since boyhood,” said Halbarad with a catch in his throat.  
  
Aragorn clasped his shoulder. “Forgive me, this is harder for you.”  
  
“But how can we be sure? Maybe they aren’t dead. Maybe Daeron is no traitor. Maybe Beleg himself is a phantom, a thing of the wights.”  
  
“Do you feel the presence of the Enemy in him?”  
  
“No. That’s for you with your uncanny Elvish healing.”  
  
“I see great trouble, but no evil.” Aragorn bowed his head a while in thought. “But I wish most of all that Beleg would allow me to examine his wound.”  
  
~oOo~  
  
They settled down to the side of the hearth. Halbarad took first watch. When he woke Aragorn for his turn, he said only, “Nothing,” before he rolled into his cloak and went to sleep.  
  
Aragorn paced noiselessly back and forth before the hearth, where he could see all three doorways leading from the hall. The silence and the dark seemed to suck all hope out of him, as fear crawled in his belly. Beleg’s tale had unsettled him, bringing back all the terrors of his own dark dreams. He shivered as the wings of blackness seemed to reach for him out of the past. He wished himself far away from all of it, tales of death, the danger and the expectations, the call of destiny. He wished he had never heard the name _Aragorn_ , that he was again Estel of Rivendell, fighting Orcs beside his foster brothers. At least then he knew how to judge his enemies.  
  
The memory of Beleg’s glittering eyes would not leave him. Damn the man, couldn’t he pull himself together? As it was, he must be thrust aside, for all the good he could do the Rangers. He slapped his forehead in disgust at himself. _What_ _kind_ _of_ _man_ _am_ _I_? _My_ _father’s_ _sworn_ _brother_ — _he_ _is_ _no_ _enemy_ , _but_ _in_ _need_ _of_ _help_.  
  
Eventually chill light began to drift from the air shafts above. Shaking the weariness from his eyes, Aragorn bent over the water basin and dashed the chill water into his face, running wet hands through his shaggy hair.  
  
Halbarad still slept. Aragorn nudged him with his foot. “Wake up. It’s a new day.”  
  
Halbarad’s lids opened, and no sleep showed in weary, troubled eyes. “As if I have slept. Well, dozed on and off. Has something happened?”  
  
“Nothing. Let’s hope Beleg got more rest than the two of us. We’ve got to eat quickly and move on at once. I’ll wake him.”  
  
He strode the short way to the eastern chamber and called, “Good morning, my friend!” But there was no answer. He lifted the cloth covering the entrance to Beleg’s alcove—and froze. It was empty: no bedroll, no gear, the sleeping shelf bare and stark in the dim morning light that drifted from above.  
  
“Halbarad!” he called.  
  
The sound of firm, quick footfalls told Aragorn that Halbarad had caught the tension in his voice. In an instant they stood together, staring at the bare space.  
  
“Did you hear anything last night?” Halbarad asked.  
  
“Not a thing.”  
  
“He was a phantom, sent to lead us astray. A madman, lost in his own dreams.”  
  
“He is a man in deep trouble, and we must find him. He’s taken everything.” Aragorn gestured at the empty chest that lay, open-mouthed, at the foot of the sleeping shelf. A cold fury, born of fear and dismay, gripped his heart. “He can’t have walked right by us when he left. We must search the eastern passages.”  
  
Halbarad cursed under his breath. “We don’t know all the paths. I don’t know how many entrances there are to this place. Not even my father knows.”  
  
“A way in may have been discovered,” Aragorn snapped. “We are no longer safe. Let’s separate—you look for clues here.”  
  
Halbarad nodded and bent to search the alcove as Aragorn strode away to light a torch. There were three doorways in the eastern wall. The first led to a storage room; venturing through the second, Aragorn soon found stale, fetid air, and turned back. “Has he vanished into the air, as if by dark arts?” Aragorn muttered to himself.  
  
He heard Halbarad’s voice calling his name and saw his dark shape standing in the doorway, shadowed against the dim light of the main hall. “I’ve found nothing in the hall,” Halbarad said.  
  
“This is a path to nowhere,” Aragorn said as he reached his companion. “There remains only one passage. Let’s gather our packs and go.”  
  
Holding aloft the torch, Aragorn moved into the dark tunnel, Halbarad close behind. The small passageway soon opened up into a broad, smooth road wide enough for four men to walk abreast. They had marched a mile, steadily downward, when Aragorn saw a shaft of light ahead. There, on the rocky floor, was a footprint, as if it were meant to be found. “Look.”  
  
“I see. How thoughtful of him to leave a trace,” Halbarad said bitterly. “This passage here leads East toward the ruined fortress, toward the most dangerous lands.”  
  
“What choice do we have?”  
  
Halbarad shrugged. “None. We would be lost in the dark going back to the main entrance in any case. But I am going first.”  
  
Aragorn opened his mouth to object, but Halbarad fixed him with a fierce stare. “I’m not letting you put yourself on the front line.”  
  
Aragorn laughed bitterly. “Lead on, my captain! Your troops will follow.”  
  
Halbarad shouldered his pack. “Unless he is a wight, Beleg is either insane or abducted. What else could it be?”  
  
“Whatever it is, I hate the very feel of this place. And—”  
  
“What?”  
  
“His tale of dark dreams. Too like the ones that have plagued me since my disgrace at the Orc hunt.”  
  
Halbarad rolled his eyes. “‘Disgrace’! How you talk! Only in the eyes of fools. All I know is that Beleg is going to answer some tough questions from me, I don’t care that he’s my father’s right-hand man and three times our age.”  
  
“What I fear is that he doesn’t know the answers, but holds the secret unbeknownst. I cannot forget that last dream I had at the grave of my father’s death, my father falling as he called out Beleg’s name. Yet another thing that Beleg cannot remember. He never speaks of what happened there.”  
  
The dark path led straight and smooth till it began to close in on all sides. Soon they had to crawl on their bellies, and Halbarad let out a curse.  
  
“What?”  
  
“This is the end. It’s all rock. Wait, it’s moving.” And bright light opened up before them as Halbarad thrust out the small doors. Below lay the gap in the mountains leading to the land of Angmar, the Ettenmoors stretching to the south.  
  
They scrambled out and gasped in dismay. The way down to the plain below was so steep that they could not walk it upright. They slid, crawled, and climbed their way down. But there, sure enough, a clear trail of booted footprints continued. “Has he forgotten all his Ranger ways?” snarled Halbarad. “Or is this a trap?”  
  
“Either way, we must press on.”  
  
For two days they followed the tracks, which sometimes disappeared, only to be found again after close scouting. Then, as the second day darkened into night, the light of a camp fire glowed not far away. They crept up to the fire noiselessly, arms in hand. And there was Beleg, sitting cross-legged, his shoulders bowed, staring into the small, dancing flames.  
  
Aragorn called his name.  
  
The man turned his face, weary but yet still beautiful, dark shadows ringing his eyes, and his carefully bare chin showing that despite all, he was shaving his beard. Beleg lifted his hand and beckoned them to the fire. “Welcome. I am glad you have found me. I don’t know where I am.”  
  
His voice trembled, and fever flushed his face lit by the fire. Aragorn crouched at his side and gazed into the glittering eyes. Beleg met his eyes straight on, but he spoke no more.  
  
“Are you ill? Why did you flee like that?”  
  
Beleg shuddered. “I don’t know. I thought I was tracking Daeron. What happened? Have you found him?”  
  
“No, we have been looking for you,” Aragorn snapped. “You left the Refuge without a word in the middle of the night. Why?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Beleg said again. “I don’t remember that.”  
  
Aragorn cast his eyes up to Halbarad, who stood silent and still above them, looking down. “Keep watch while I tend him.”  
  
Halbarad nodded and begin to slowly pace the perimeter, peering into the gloomy, darkening woods, his bow at the ready.  
  
“Lie down, Beleg. I am going to look at that arm, however much you deny me.”  
  
Surprisingly, Beleg acquiesced without a word and allowed Aragorn to examine him. Fearing that he would find a festering wound, Aragorn stripped off Beleg’s tunic and shirt from his left side and carefully unwound the band of cloth from his lower arm and wrist.  
  
He exclaimed in surprise. The wound was clean and dry, the skin around it whole and healthy, with no swelling or redness in the flesh.  
  
“Well, my friend, you seem to be a very lucky man,” Aragorn said with a smile. “It is healing.”  
  
“I told you so,” Beleg murmured. “Why would I lie?”  
  
“Then the fever comes from something else. Do you have another wound you haven’t mentioned?”  
  
Beleg shook his head.  
  
Aragorn examined him, but could not find any other possible source of infection. “It is a sickness from the air, I guess. You must sweat it out. Sleep now, and Halbarad and I will watch.”  
  
Beleg soon lapsed into a deep slumber. He burned, but did not toss with the frets of fever. Once the sick man had settled down, Aragorn rose and went to Halbarad who guarded the perimeter. “I will watch now. You should sleep over there, away from him and the contagion.”  
  
“What about you?”  
  
“When it comes my turn to sleep, I’ll settle in at his side, so that he’ll wake me if he stirs.”  
  
Halbarad gritted his teeth. “You’re determined to destroy yourself, aren’t you?”  
  
Aragorn grasped his shoulder. “It’s not as bad as you think. The healing power gives me some protection, I believe.”  
  
“You are certainly testing it.”  
  
But Beleg’s sleep was serene and rested, and Aragorn was not awakened. At one point in the night he laid his hand across the sick man’s brow, and found it cool and dry. Relief descended on him and made him aware of how tired he was. Sometimes healing seemed to be more exhausting than battle. He slept deeply, dreaming of Arwen.


	27. The Servant of Mordor

"Aragorn, wake up."  
  
Unwilling to leave his sweet dream, he groaned as he opened bleary eyes to see Halbarad's dirt-caked boots before his face in the dim light of early dawn. He turned over. "What is it?"  
  
"He's gone again."  
  
Jolted completely awake, Aragorn sat up. "What? How?"  
  
"He walked, I guess." Halbarad's face was rigid with fury, his voice tight. "You said you would wake if he moved."  
  
Dismayed, Aragorn threw off his cloak and rose in one swift movement. "A fine watch you keep."  
  
Halbarad growled. "He's better than both of us. What do we do now? Chase after him again?"  
  
A sick, hollow feeling gnawed at Aragorn's gut. "He may be ill and wandering. Or taken. Something is terribly wrong. What choice do we have but to see it through?"  
  
"To our deaths, maybe," Halbarad said. He began to gather his things.  
  
Aragorn stooped to gather his cloak and healer's kit, that had lay at his side through the night, but when he stood up, it was to see Beleg's swift form moving silently and gracefully into the clearing. "Good morning, young ones! Awake at last?"  
  
Relief and rage warred in Aragorn's heart. "Where have you been?"  
  
Beleg's fine mouth curved in an amused smile. He had shaved again, Aragorn noted with amazement. "Scouting ahead, of course. I found this knife. A sign of the enemy, I believe." He lifted up a silver dagger with a short, broad blade. "We must go that way."  
  
Aragorn reached out for the weapon, but Beleg quickly sheaved it in his belt. "Your treatments have cured me, young healer. Have no worry."  
  
Swallowing his fury, Aragorn scanned his vital face and vigorous figure, looking for any sign of illness or madness. ""You look very well, my friend."  
  
"Indeed, I feel as if I were newly born today." His eyes and his smile picked up the light of the rising sun.  
  
"Still, I would advise some caution, till we are sure you are quite fit."  
  
Beleg laughed, a hearty, triumphant roll of bliss. "Oh, it's been some time since I felt this well. Why, I doubt you two young ones can keep pace with me. Come, we go to find Daeron. I believe this knife is a sign of where he may be."  
  
As Beleg scattered the ashes of their fire, Halbarad beckoned to Aragorn and whispered in his ear. "The madness may yet grip him. I have heard of this: a man goes from despair to elation in mysterious ways. Beleg always was a man of strong feelings."  
  
"Perhaps," Aragorn said. "We will continue to watch him. I do not know what else to do but to follow him. He knows this land better than we do, and a hunt for Daeron is our best course. Perhaps at last we will meet with the reinforcements from Thurnost."  
  
Halbarad looked as worried and unsure as Aragorn felt. "Elladan and Elrohir expected to join us, too."  
  
"I doubt my foster brothers will have finished their journey with their father," said Aragorn. "From their hints, I expected the journey would be a long one. They'll come when their duty is over."  
  
Beleg turned abruptly toward them. His eyes sparkled like night stars. "The sons of Elrond will come?"  
  
Surprised that he had heard their whispers, Aragorn gazed curiously at his shining face. "Yes, they plan to join our Orc hunt, as I believe I told you. But no Orc hunt will happen unless we've discovered their den."  
  
"They are here. I saw them from Wolf's Head." Beleg pointed east. "That's the way we must go, and we will find Daeron too, that traitor."  
  
"How do you know that? What sign does this knife give?"  
  
"I know, that's all." He raised one elegant brow in challenge. "Perhaps you, too, will one day learn such things of the wild. Or you could say I dreamed it. Are you coming?"  
  
Halbarad snorted, but strapped his pack to his back. His bow was strung and waiting. "Let's waste no more time."  
  
With even greater care than usual, Aragorn fastened his sword belt around his waist and felt at least some relief to have Morchamion hanging ready at his side. As he took his place behind Halbarad and Beleg, he felt under his tunic for the red-and-black damasked knife that his great-grandmother had given him in memory of his great-grandfather Argonui. Somehow he felt he would soon have need of it.  
  
They set off at the quickest pace that stealth would allow, halting only to eat scanty meals and traveling into the evening. When at last they stopped for the night, Aragorn and Halbarad dropped with weariness. Beleg laughed. "I said it would be so. I will keep watch so you children can get your rest."  
  
Troubled but at a loss for any other course of action, Aragorn rolled into his cloak and slept. That night, when he from time to time turned restlessly, he would see Beleg standing straight and tall against the night stars, singing softly.  
  
For two days they traveled through the hilly country, moving ever east. Aragorn continued to watch Beleg carefully, unsure if he feared madness or treachery. Once Beleg turned his bright eyes on Aragorn's face, and smiled. "Do you worry about me, young one?"  
  
"Always."  
  
"Look to yourself. I do not need your help, and I have long traveled in this land."  
  
So Aragorn tried to watch him more discretely, waiting for the seeming strength of Beleg's latest mood to collapse into dread or dreams. But he seemed never to weary or to waver in his pursuit of the trail. Halbarad stayed close at Aragorn's side. The rocky land of the mountains to the north began to give way to sparse woods, marked with meandering tracks. "Beasts," Beleg said.  
  
"Or Orcs," Aragorn said.  
  
But Beleg shook his head. "Not here." He pointed to the east at a crag of grey rock. "Daeron will be in the dell just over that ridge."  
  
"How do you know?" asked Halbarad, his brows lifted in challenge.  
  
"I can smell him," Beleg snapped.  
  
Exchanging a glance with Aragorn, Halbarad said, "I will go first."  
  
Beleg shrugged, and gave way to Halbarad's lead. They moved silently toward the crag and skirted it southward to a green, treed valley. Aragorn walked behind Beleg, watching him as carefully as the way ahead.  
  
And there, round a fallen stump, in an open space amid the trees, Daeron knelt within a shallow pit. He seemed to be digging, a round, flat rock gripped in his hands. At the side of the ditch crouched Rodnor, his head bowed over a body shrouded in a bloody cloak.  
  
Drawing Morchamion, Aragorn shouldered Beleg aside and strode into the clearing, Halbarad behind him with his arrow cocked and bow drawn. "Rodnor! Daeron! What's happened? Who has died?" Aragorn cried.  
  
Rodnor lifted his head, his face pale and wretched. "Grandfather—dead. I tried—" Choking sobs swallowed his words.  
  
Aragorn could not stop his strangled cry. "Hawk dead!" Halbarad groaned.  
  
Daeron froze as he was, crouched in the grave, the rock half lifted in his waiting hands. Beleg's sword was pointed at his belly; as swift as a stag in flight Beleg had leaped past Aragorn and Halbarad. "Stand up, you traitor," he spat, his eyes gleaming fiercely.  
  
"Stop, Beleg." commanded Aragorn. "I will give the orders here."  
  
But Beleg did not lower his sword. Aragorn lifted Morchamion, and for a heartbeat all were still, waiting.  
  
Daeron raised himself to his feet. He stared at Beleg unblinking, his face impassive, his blind eye twitching. He dropped the rock at his feet. "I am no traitor."  
  
"What has happened here? Rodnor, speak!" Aragorn looked at the boy's anguished face, sure that here, at least, was someone whose word he could trust.  
  
"Daeron tried to help us." Rodnor's voice sounded stunned and weak. "He tried to save my grandfather. Daeron killed the wolf, but he couldn't save my grandfather." Harsh sobs wracked his thin chest.  
  
"Wolf?" snapped Beleg. "What wolf? I see none."  
  
Daeron said, "I dragged the carcass away. It was no wild beast, killing for hunger. It was a hound of the Enemy."  
  
"You have great knowledge of these matters, no doubt," mocked Beleg. "But I see at least you've fooled this boy with these tall tales." Beleg moved closer to Daeron, his swordpoint raised to the man's throat.  
  
"Beleg, I order you to stop!" said Aragorn again, furious that the man would not obey him. "Halbarad will guard him. You and I will speak about this."  
  
"Stay back, Aragorn," Beleg commanded, not moving an inch. "This traitor wants the blood of the Heir of Isildur."  
  
Daeron lifted up his hands in surrender. He looked directly at Aragorn. "It's not true. I have come to hunt the Enemy."  
  
"You deserted your post," said Aragorn. "The chieftain judged that cause for your execution."  
  
"Túrin wouldn't listen," Daeron said quietly. "I saw them, the wolves. He wouldn't follow."  
  
"You tell clever lies," Beleg said, his keen eyes glowing. "You deserve death."  
  
"No," Aragorn said. "I won't judge so quickly. But we must bind him."  
  
Beleg thrust his sword into the earth, and pulled a coarse rope from his pouch. "Cover him while I bind him," he said to Halbarad. Halbarad turned his questioning glance to Aragorn, who nodded curtly.  
  
"I will not resist, but I ask to have my say." Daeron held out his hands to Beleg's rope.  
  
"You deserve nothing," Beleg snarled as he pulled the knots tight.  
  
"Those decisions are mine to make," Aragorn roared. "Rodnor will tell us what happened here."  
  
Rodnor stood up slowly. "He helped us, I swear it. I would be dead too, if not for him."  
  
Beleg seized hold of Daeron's bound arms, pulling them cruelly. "And what do you say, traitor? How have you beguiled this child?" And as Aragorn flung away his pack and his sword and leaped forward to grab Beleg, Daeron's eyes flared with challenge as he yanked his arms from his captor's grasp. But Beleg moved too fast: he swung his two fists into the man's face, and Daeron toppled.  
  
Aragorn and Halbarad both jumped to seize Beleg, who struck out with his booted foot and kicked Halbarad to the ground. Aragorn roared with rage as he reached to grab Beleg with a wrestler's move. But Beleg slithered from his grasp and dropped to Daeron's side, putting his mouth to the unconscious man's ear as Aragorn grabbed him. Beleg's lips moved, and Daeron shuddered, like a sick man in convulsions.  
  
Trembling with rage, Aragorn heaved Beleg to his feet. But the man only smiled, his eyes darkly gleaming. Fear seized Aragorn's very being at the triumph in his keen glance.  
  
"What have you done?" he hissed.  
  
"Why, merely spoken words of healing. I, too, know some Elvish tricks."  
  
Aragorn growled, "Halbarad, watch him." Halbarad wrenched Beleg away from the ditch where Daeron lay. Aragorn crouched at Daeron's side. The man's hands were tightly bound across his belly, and a dark bruise was blossoming around his eyes—both the empty socket and the whole eye. At Aragorn's touch Daeron cried out and struggled in his bonds, but he did not regain consciousness.  
  
Keeping one hand on Daeron's arm, Aragorn turned his head to stare at Beleg, whose right arm Halbarad held twisted behind his back. Rodnor stood nearby, trembling. "What did you do to him?"  
  
"You saw. I hit him. He will be much more docile when he comes round."  
  
"No," Aragorn snapped. "You did something to him, more than an unmanly punch of a bound man. What words did you speak?"  
  
"Power far beyond yours, son of Arathorn."  
  
With the speed of a striking snake Beleg whipped away from Halbarad, who fell backward with a grunt, and seized Rodnor where he stood in a daze.  
  
The silver dagger gleaming in Beleg's hand pointed into Rodnor's side. The boy cried out as the man seized him by the throat.  
  
Rising to his feet, Aragorn stared into Beleg's face and saw the gleaming light in his eyes flare up. He had seen that light before, but never in the eyes of a Man.  
  
"Who are you?" He took one step closer.  
  
"Stop where you are," Beleg commanded, and moved the dagger to Rodnor's throat. A thin trickle of blood edged down the boy's neck. His face was white and pinched, his eyes shadowed with blue circles of shock and fatigue.  
  
Aragorn stopped, staring at the stranger before him, and intently and gratefully aware that Halbarad crouched close by, his arrow once more cocked in his drawn bow.  
  
"You are not Beleg. Who are you?" Aragorn said again.  
  
Halbarad stirred with unease. Beleg's eyes snapped to him. "Keep still," he snarled, "or the boy dies. Throw down your weapon."  
  
Morchamion lay on the ground where Aragorn had flung it in the struggle. Conscious of the weight of Saelind's dagger inside his tunic, he lifted his hands to show that they were empty. But Halbarad trained his arrow at Beleg's breast.  
  
Sneering, Beleg blocked his shot with Rodnor's body, and again dug the dagger into the boy's neck. "I don't want to kill him, but I will if you force me."  
  
"Halbarad," Aragorn spit between clenched teeth. With a curse Halbarad thrust his weapons to the ground and raised his hands.  
  
"You," Beleg nodded his chin at Halbarad, "lie on your belly over there, and lock your hands behind your head. If you move from there, the boy dies. Don't think you can outwit me: I am far stronger and quicker than you know even yet."  
  
Halbarad shifted his eyes to Aragorn, who with a quick, sharp nod of his head, told him to obey. Halbarad rolled to the ground and, slowly, slowly, stretched out.  
  
"Face down." Beleg ordered, probing Rodnor's neck with the dagger as the blood continued to drip. He kicked Halbarad where he lay, and locked eyes again with Aragorn. The flaring light seared Aragorn's mind. "Hold your hands out, so that the boy may bind them."  
  
The blood dripping down his neck, Rodnor tied bonds over Aragorn's wrists with shaking hands.  
  
The silver dagger in Beleg's forceful grip was beautiful, polished and graceful. _Elven_ _make_ , Aragorn realized with horror. _An_ _Elvish_ _wight_ _has_ _taken_ _Beleg_.  
  
"Who are you?" he demanded.  
  
"On the ground," the stranger ordered as he kicked Aragorn's legs. Aragorn fell clumsily to his knees.  
  
The stranger bound Rodnor's hands, and kicked Halbarad yet again before he bound his hands behind his back. Halbarad groaned, and then lay as if dead.  
  
Fingering the gleaming edge of the dagger in his powerful hands, he who had been Beleg stood over Aragorn where he knelt, panting, in the dust. Raising his head, Aragorn stared into the stranger's eyes and snarled, " _Cotumo_."  
  
The stranger laughed. "For many years I have hunted your kind and sought to wrest this land from your hands. Yes, I am your enemy, son of Arathorn. Who am I, you ask? I have had many names and many forms. Call me Drauchir, a name I once bore many years ago in this very land."  
  
"Lord of wolves," Aragorn said slowly. "That was the name of the sorcerer of Rhudaur."  
  
"Once I was called that," Drauchir answered. "In the war where almost we shattered what was left of your sorry race. Now I am here to finish the job."  
  
Aragorn began to shake as the truth sank into his heart. "You are the spirit of an Elf, given to the service of Sauron," he whispered.  
  
" _Mairon_ ," the stranger spat. "Do not speak of what you cannot understand. I was born into a body of the master race of Elves, the Noldor. The life of my _fëa_ spans three ages of this world, although it has lived in many bodies—even within the fierce body of a wolf. But when an Elf cannot be found, I prefer the body of a Dúnadan. This one suits me well enough, but yours would be even better."  
  
The light in his eyes flared yet again, and a slow smile spread over his face. "Ah yes," he said softly. "Such sweet revenge. Not only to destroy the line of Isildur, my master's dearest wish, but to use the body of Elrond's foster son to wipe that half-breed and his kind from Middle-earth. For who would prevent Estel the beloved from entering the Last Homely House?"  
  
A fear so deep and cold seized Aragorn that his head spun. But he stared without blinking into the stranger's face. "That will be harder than you think. Elrond will defeat you. He will return Beleg to his body."  
  
"No, little Dúnadan," Drauchir laughed. "The spirit you call Beleg is beyond the circles of the world, in that void where the impotent ghosts of mortal Men go after their short, miserable strut in this world. I forced him from his body as it lay fevered and weak from the wolf's bite. Beleg died while you lay in your weak mortal's sleep."  
  
With a sick lurch in the pit of his belly Aragorn tried to remember everything that Elrond had ever taught him about these fearful beings, houseless Elves who force a spirit from its rightful body and use it as a puppeteer uses a marionette.  
  
Drauchir's smile broadened. "I see you realize I speak the truth. For many of your years I hid in the corners of Beleg's mind, whispering commands to his weak will. At last it is time to finish what was started long ago in Mirkwood. Yes, that's right. My power entered him when he took the blade meant for your father. Such a noble deed! It allowed me to achieve even greater ends: the deaths of two of the spawn of the wretched Isildur. And yet one more so close."  
  
Aragorn clenched his fists in their tight bonds. "You killed my father and my grandfather."  
  
"It was not my arm that dealt the blow, but my power called to the Trolls and the Orcs who saw it done," Drauchir said, and again his face broadened in a delighted smile. "Now my master and I will destroy what remains of your broken people. As for this—" He heaved the scabbard bearing Narsil from Aragorn's pack. "This useless scrap will be melted in the fires of Mount Doom."  
  
He seized the hilt, drew the broken sword and held it aloft. His face twisted in disgust. Then, swift as a snake, he flashed the broken blade toward Aragorn's chest, slit his tunic with the lethally sharp edge, and raised up the silver chain bearing the Ring of Barahir. Hatred burned in his eyes. "This, too, we will destroy."  
  
Aragorn did not move as the blade hovered near his throat. "I see by your _lachenn_ eyes that you were born in Valinor under the light of the Two Trees. How can you serve the Enemy?"  
  
Drauchir tickled Aragorn's neck with the broken end of Narsil. "Is not Melkor a Vala, the most powerful of all? And my master Annatar is the greatest of the Maiar. The Valar! They abandoned you and your kind long ago and called down the wrath of the One to destroy you. If it comforts you, then consider that I but carry out their will."  
  
He drew back and dropped the broken blade into the dust. "Greatest among the crimes of the Valar is the Half-Elven mongrels. Children of Lúthien," he sneered. "Kings of Númenor—what a farce! Look at you, covered with dirt and sweat like a peasant!"  
  
Aragorn spat at Drauchir's feet. "No death would be too cruel for such as you."  
  
Drauchir laughed. "Ah, but you cannot kill me, little Dúnadan. You can kill this body, but my _fëa_ will only find a new one. Your mind is too weak to imagine the extent of my power."  
  
He plucked the blade that had once been Beleg's from its stand in the earth and strode to Daeron's prostrate body. Aragorn closed his eyes, sure that he meant to kill the unconscious man. But the mad Elf's voice rang out with a command in the High Elven tongue: "Awake, and serve your master!"  
  
Aragorn opened his eyes and gazed without hope at the sorcerer standing over his puppet victim. Daeron stirred; his one good eye was dark, his face grim. "I am ready to serve," he uttered hoarsely. "Command me."  
  
Drauchir sliced the bonds from Daeron's hands. "We will mark these men." His voice was stern and not be disobeyed. Daeron sat up and brushed the cut ropes from his hands.  
  
"He is first," said Drauchir, pointing to Halbarad, stretched and tied on the ground. "He, too, will make a good servant. Bring him to me." He fingered the edge of the silver dagger.  
  
Aragorn wanted to roar with rage and frustration, but he kept himself still, watching for any opportunity to fight. He would die before he would allow himself or his companions to become the creatures of this Lord of Wolves. If only he could reach his one last weapon: the black and red dagger that nestled against his body. He remembered Saelind's sweet, old face as she said, "My heart tells me that one day it will save your life."  
  
He watched as Daeron walked as if in his sleep toward Halbarad's long, lean form. Halbarad began to shout and writhe.  
  
"Keep still, or I will kill the boy," hissed Drauchir, his silver-handled dagger again pressed to Rodnor's side.  
  
Like a sleepwalker Daeron bent over and pulled Halbarad to his knees, and then to his feet—and the two Rangers leaped upon Drauchir, Daeron striking like a bird of prey. Halbarad flew to Aragorn and with two swift strokes, cut him from his bonds.  
  
Aragorn pulled Saelind's dagger from inside his tunic and whirled to kill.  
  
But Drauchir was faster: Rodnor screamed as the blade sliced into his side.  
  
As he threw his weight against the enemy, Aragorn aimed the dagger at his bare throat. Drauchir fell over, Aragorn on top of him, but Drauchir still bore his own weapon and slashed at Aragorn's face. He knew, rather than felt, the cut and the blood in his beard. Standing above them, Halbarad kicked Drauchir repeatedly in the trunk and head, and Daeron stomped on his arm until with a sickening crunch the bone broke.  
  
Drauchir struggled fiercely against Aragorn with an inhuman strength. Almost he threw Aragorn off, but as Halbarad and Daeron kicked the man's head and body, Aragorn twisted in a wrestler's move and drove the dagger into the pit of his broken arm.  
  
"Bind his legs!" he shouted, holding the man down with all of his weight and skill. Halbarad trussed up Drauchir's legs like a fly in a spider's web, kicked him onto his side and bound his hands behind his back.  
  
"So, little Dúnadan, you win this bout," Drauchir said. His eyes cut to Daeron, who flinched. "How did you escape my power, you weakling?"  
  
"I am no traitor," Daeron said.  
  
"You turned from riches and reward beyond your dreams, even the woman you desire. I would have given her to you."  
  
Aragorn growled and would have slashed the man's throat then and there, but Halbarad pulled him back. Daeron only stared.  
  
"You will die soon enough, lord of wolves," Aragorn said. "But first you will talk. What is this silver knife? What have you done to the boy?"  
  
"I marked him with a power beyond your ability to heal. He will die, or he will turn to my will."  
  
Aragorn spat at him. He turned to Daeron and Halbarad. "Keep him at weapon's point. I must see to Rodnor."  
  
He knelt beside Rodnor. His breathing was shallow but steady, his face white and sickly, blood soaking his jerkin. His eyes flickered with agony as Aragorn stripped his jerkin and shirt and softly wiped the blood away from the wound. To his relief, it was not deep, just long and bloody: with good tending it should heal, leaving only a scar. Gently he washed the cut with water from his waterskin, and bound a poultice to Rodnor's side to keep the wound clean and dry and lessen pain. He stroked Rodnor's head and murmured words of comfort.  
  
"How is he?" Halbarad asked.  
  
"He's in no danger of death from the cut itself," Aragorn said. "But this is no ordinary wound. Remember my own injury, and the unexplained fever and dreams that followed? That had to have been a mark of Drauchir's power."  
  
He rose and looked down at the creature where he lay. He knew of only one way to lessen the deadly power, and steeled himself to do the deed he knew he must. He picked up Morchamion in its scabbard from the ground where he had flung it and drew the long blade. He fixed his eyes on the Elf's glittering stare as he said with a calm that he did not feel, "You will die now."  
  
"You can kill this body, but your triumph will be short," snarled the mad Elf. "I have already called my wolves, and they will come, and one will give up his body to me, and we will find you and kill you all. And your spirit will leave the world stained with the blood of your father's friend, son of Arathorn son of Arador."  
  
"Maybe so," Aragorn said. "But without this body you will be helpless until your minions come, and you will kill, at least for a while, no more of my people."  
  
He motioned to Halbarad to haul Drauchir to his knees. He wished fervently that he could use Narsil to end the man's life, but the short, broken blade would not allow a clean sweep through the neck. Slowly he raised Morchamion gripped in his two fists. _Forgive_ _me_ , _my_ _fathers_ _both_ , _the_ _one_ _who_ _gave_ _me_ _life_ _and_ _the_ _one_ _who_ _raised_ _me_ , _for_ _what_ _I_ _will_ _do_ _with_ _this_ _sword_ _given_ _in_ _honor_ _and_ _love_. He stood before the man crouched on the ground. Without fear Drauchir stared into Aragorn's eyes, a mocking smile covering his face.  
  
"As the chieftain of the Dúnedain and the Heir of Isildur," Aragorn said, "for the crimes you have committed against my people this long age and the murders of my father and grandfather, I pronounce sentence of death upon you."  
  
Drauchir laughed. And he laughed still as Morchamion sliced into his neck, cleaving his head from his body. Blood spattered Aragorn's front as the shuddering, headless body slumped over and the head rolled into the dirt.  
  
Aragorn carefully wiped the blood from Morchamion and sheathed it. Then he raised his eyes to his companions, who stood silent, shocked and grieving. "Make ready to leave here at once."  
  
"Abandon their bodies as carrion? Leave Hawk to the crows?" Halbarad's face was dark with pain.  
  
"We have no choice," said Aragorn harshly. "The wolves are summoned. I urge you to believe this threat is real. Rodnor is wounded and weak and could be taken over by his mad _fëa_."  
  
Halbarad shifted on his feet, looking around as if an armed enemy lurked behind him. "He is still here then."  
  
"Oh yes," Aragorn nodded. "He is still here. But powerless for now with no body to carry his evil will. Rodnor is at great risk."  
  
"You're wounded yourself, Aragorn. He struck you, too."  
  
Aragorn laid a hand to the matted blood in his beard and felt the stinging cut on his jaw. "Yes, but it is slight. It won't slow me down. Daeron—"  
  
"I am no traitor," Daeron said. Tears coursed through the dirt on his face. "I am a true Dúnadan."  
  
"I know," Aragorn said. "You saved our lives. We will talk more later. But now, my friends, we must go."  
  
"I know a place," Daeron said, "a safe hideout. We can make for there, and decide later where to move on. It's across the river, toward the mountains, and the water will help throw off our trail."  
  
Aragorn nodded. "Halbarad, can you carry Rodnor? He will be in pain, but we must move him anyway."  
  
"Yes, if Daeron can carry my pack."  
  
Daeron was already gathering their gear.  
  
Aragorn stooped and grasped the broken hilt of Narsil where Drauchir had thrown it in a patch of mud. Carefully he wiped it clean and returned it to the old scabbard. Then he wrapped his hand in a cloth and picked up the squat, leaf-bladed silver dagger that Drauchir had borne. Its graceful, simple lines belied its dark arts. "I will bring this to Elrond. He will know what must be done."


	28. The Power of Elven Healing

Wrapping the silver blade in a scrap of cloth and tying it firmly, Aragorn could not suppress a shudder as he thrust the bundle into his belt pouch. How many Men and Elves had been the victims of the cruel blade through the long years? He knelt at the body and severed head of the man he had killed. Lying in its own blood and bereft now of the spirit of the mad Elf, the face and figure, graceful in death and still warm to the touch, were Beleg once again. Aragorn bent his head in mourning.  
  
 _Forgive_ _me_ , _my_ _friend_ , _for_ _I_ _will_ _never_ _forgive_ _myself_.  
  
He picked up Saelind's red-and-black dagger where it lay beside the body, and washed it clean with the little water remaining in his skin. “Give me that, I know where there is water,” Daeron said.  
  
“Do it,” Aragorn said as he handed him the skin.  
  
Specks of blood spattered his leather jerkin, which hung on his chest in pieces where Drauchir had used Narsil to slit it open, but the hidden sheath where he kept Saelind's blade was intact. Wondering how soon he would again need it, he returned it to the sheath and reached inside his shirt for the Ring of Barahir that Drauchir had so hated as the symbol of the friendship of Men and Elves. The serpent's green eyes winked in the afternoon light. It appeared to be unhurt.  
  
Some warm water remained in the tin bowl Aragorn had used to clean Rodnor's wound. He used it to wash the blood from his beard where Drauchir had cut him. Would the fever and dreams that had plagued him after the death of Brelach return now that he, too, was marked by the silver blade?  
  
Halbarad had lifted the bloody cloak from Hawk's dead face, stern and noble in the sacrifice of his last battle. Halbarad’s face crumbled as he knelt before the old Ranger and bowed his head to whisper, “Farewell, my captain.”  
  
Aragorn could not speak, but he helped Halbarad straighten the cloak over the body and face. “We will mourn later,” he finally said. “For Beleg, too.”  
  
“This sorcerer,” Halbarad shuddered, “can he make the dead walk? Like the wights in the Barrow Downs? They came from Rhudaur, didn't they?”  
  
“After the last defeat of Cardolan, yes,” Aragorn said. “I don't know what powers this sorcerer has. But I do remember from the tales that he was possessed of unnatural long life. Now we know why—he is the immortal spirit of an Elf. But his _fëa_ can only possess a body still living, if I remember what Elrond taught me about the Houseless. He cannot possess the dead. And even Sauron must have a body to work his evil.”  
  
“I did a tour of duty at the Barrow Downs four years ago,” Halbarad said. “It is a terrible place.” He turned his stricken eyes to Aragorn's face. “Angmar has returned.”  
  
“Not yet,” Aragorn answered. “But it will if we do not defeat these advance forces.”  
  
Just then Daeron came running into the clearing, the waterskins slung on his back. “The wolf,” he panted, “the dead wolf—the carcass is gone.”  
  
“Talk later,” Aragorn snapped. “Now we must run for our lives.”  
  
They fled at a cruel pace, Halbarad bearing Rodnor over his broad back. He moaned in pain until, mercifully, he passed out. They followed the stream where Daeron had filled the skins through the wooded slopes. Not far away it joined a broader stream swiftly running in a stony bed between steep banks. They waded ankle-deep down the course of the chill water that buried all trace of their passing, leaving no scent for the enemy to follow.  
  
“This runs into the Hoardale, and not far to the east is a ford where we can cross,” said Daeron. “My hideout is a few hours from there.” He turned his grizzled head to face Aragorn. “We make for Rivendell?”  
  
“Yes, with all speed,” Aragorn answered. “If fortune smiles on us, maybe we'll find Rangers on the way.”  
  
“So far,” Daeron growled, “fortune seems to favor the other side.”  
  
The water at the wide, rocky ford in the river was low this late in the year, the spring torrents long past. In the mountains to the east the snow packs now grew as the air chilled into deep autumn. A few feet shy of the further bank, the Rangers turned northeast, toward the river’s source, and waded against the current for several miles. Always they dreaded to hear the harsh cries of Orcs or the howls of wolves.  
  
A cold but nonetheless welcome rain began to fall. They left the river at a shelf of bare rock where their tracks would soon be washed away.  
  
Daeron’s hideout was built under an overhanging rock, the empty space within disguised by a fall of thick, tangled thorns. A shallow pit lined with fire-darkened rocks lay within, a stack of firewood against the far wall. They crawled into the dry, sheltered space and Daeron pulled a shield of woven branches into the gap in the thorn curtain.  
  
Halbarad lay the unconscious Rodnor on the bare earth. The boy shivered and muttered in his fever. While his face and body burned, his arms and legs were chill with icy water, his hair and torn clothing soaked. Pulling his healer’s kit from his pack, which he had taken great care to protect from the chill water that had doused them all, Aragorn ordered, “Build a fire, as smokeless and flameless as you can.”  
  
Daeron was already sorting through the stack of wood. “These are dry and seasoned.”  
  
Aragorn stripped the wet clothes from the boy’s trembling body. The prolonged dousing in cold water had cleaned Rodnor’s wound and stopped the bleeding. Aragorn washed his side with warm water and healing herbs. There was no sign of festering or rot in the wound; indeed, any healer would have judged the boy fortunate and bound for a quick and full recovery. Yet he thrashed and moaned as if all the wights of Angmar chased him.  
  
Halbarad knelt at his side, ready to give any assistance. Just his presence lent Aragorn more confidence. He took Rodnor’s hand in his and laid his other hand across the boy’s forehead, murmuring words of strength and comfort as Elrond had taught him. He reached deep for the powers that he feared he did not have, to combat an enemy he feared wholly beyond his strength. Taking a deep breath, he sank his mind into the inner darkness, groping for the channels. He felt none.  
  
But slowly, slowly, whether by the power of the Elvish words, or the comfort of the warm, dry shelter, the thrashing eased and Rodnor seemed to fall into a true sleep.  
  
Drained of every vestige of his strength, Aragorn sighed and sat back cross-legged, dragging his hands through his tangled hair. In silence Halbarad waited by his side. Daeron crouched, grim-faced, near the fire, a small kettle bubbling on the glowing coals. The small fire had already warmed the air of the hideout.  
  
“Will he be all right?” Halbarad asked.  
  
“I don’t know,” Aragorn said.  
  
“You are tired to the bone. You must rest.”  
  
Aragorn grimaced. “You lecture me like a mother, Halbarad.”  
  
“Someone has to do it.” Halbarad thrust into his hands a crude wooden bowl steaming with soup. “Eat. We have little enough. Tomorrow we will hunt.”  
  
Gratefully Aragorn lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped the hot broth. Bits of dried meat floated in it, giving it a flavor as welcome as a roasted haunch of venison in Elrond’s Hall of Feasts. He had not realized how hungry he was. He drank in silence, watching the sick boy, quiet now but still flushed with fever. He knew that they could not stay in Daeron’s shelter beyond a day. They could not depend upon its secrecy remaining undiscovered from the power of the foe pursuing them. The only safety lay in flight to Rivendell by the quickest possible way. They must climb into the lower slopes of the mountains and come to the Valley from the North.  
  
Halbarad was now sorting the contents of their soaked packs and putting out things to dry; Daeron, his face dark and pained, was sharpening and cleaning his dagger.  
  
Setting down the empty bowl, Aragorn gestured to them. “What do we know of the other Rangers? Is there any chance we can reach them?”  
  
Halbarad shrugged. “All we know is that Beleg expected Ingold to lead a company on horse from the Weather Hills. But when? He did not say, if he knew.”  
  
Daeron said gruffly, “I know only that Túrin and the northern squad remain on guard near Gundabad.”  
  
Aragorn drew his hand across his weary eyes. “If any Rangers come to the Refuge, they’ll be in danger. We have every reason to believe its secret is discovered.”  
  
“What can we do?” Halbarad muttered. “We can get them no word. Even if we dared travel west through Troll country, it’s too far. Even the journey to Rivendell will be slowed down by a sick boy.”  
  
“I know a way through the low hills here, leading south to a little-used cut through the mountains. It will take us into some rough country at first, but if we are all on our feet we will then travel quickly and in secret.”  
  
“Good. We are already far in debt to your courage and experience.”  
  
“It is only my duty, Aragorn.” Daeron’s scarred eye twitched as he spoke, but Aragorn was learning to see beyond the dour ugliness to the loyal man within. He smiled in acknowledgment.  
  
“And Rodnor?” Halbarad said. “Will he be fit to travel?”  
  
“Not without stronger healing than I can give,” Aragorn said. “I must work on the belief that this wound is just as serious as the one Beleg got in Mirkwood, when Drauchir first got power over him.”  
  
“But Drauchir is not here now.”  
  
“Nor did he follow Beleg to Thurnost,” Aragorn said heavily. “Yet his power stayed. I don’t know how, but it must be so. We must get Rodnor to Rivendell for Elrond’s care.”  
  
“It’s two weeks journey even if we were all fit,” said Daeron. “We have no supplies; we’ll have to stop to hunt. But I have another idea, Aragorn. You healed me with the Elven power—I believe that’s why Drauchir could no longer rule me through Beleg.”  
  
Surprised, Aragorn turned his eyes to Daeron’s weary face. “If I did, I hardly know how. Elrond himself says my training is far from complete and my power untested and unsure. I don’t think he’ll be pleased that I tried it on you.” He smiled ruefully. “Let me assure you, however, that there was no danger for you.”  
  
“Yes, so you said at the time. I remember it well. Did you not just use those powers here with Rodnor?”  
  
Aragorn shook his head and shrugged. “I have not the strength now, I guess. The next few hours will show how much good I may have done. He is hurt far worse than you were, Daeron—he took a direct stroke. But your experience could help me. Tell me anything you can remember of this—creature. How did he take power over you? Did Beleg ever wound you, or cause you some hurt? Do you remember?”  
  
“Never wounded,” Daeron said slowly. “I only know that after your healing, it was as if a fog in my mind cleared. I came to see more and more that something beyond my own knowledge had played a part in my—my unforgivable attack. I didn’t know what it was until the other day, when the sorcerer revealed himself. Now, in thinking back on it, I remember that I spoke to Beleg the evening before I assaulted you, and he asked me to help him bind a cut on his leg. I got his blood on my hands.”  
  
“And I was covered in his blood up to my elbows the day I fell from my horse,” Aragorn said.  
  
“I wonder if Beleg’s presence on the day that Arathorn and I fought had an impact,” Daeron said, his face reddening with distress. “But I fear that was just my own jealousy, and no black arts.”  
  
“But the wound to your eye that day may well have made you more vulnerable to the evil affect. It’s possible. How I wish Elrond were here!” Aragorn muttered. “He would know how to answer these questions.”  
  
“Perhaps you’ve done Rodnor more good already than you know,” Daeron said. “If not, can you try again?”  
  
“No!” Halbarad blurted. “Don’t you see, Daeron? The danger is to Aragorn. Isn’t that so?”  
  
“Elrond has told me so.”  
  
“Just what is the risk?”  
  
Aragorn thought back to the days of Elrond’s teaching. “The power itself has its dangers to an untrained practitioner. Elrond spoke of being ‘lost’ in the channels. I don’t really understand it. But even more, the dark arts of sorcery are fraught with peril for all of us, and the healing power can make the healer himself even more vulnerable to them, if he doesn’t know what to do.”  
  
“You are wounded yourself,” Halbarad said fiercely, “by the same foul knife. What of that?”  
  
“That dousing in the river cleaned it up.” Aragorn probed his own jaw for the small cut. “I think it did more damage to my beard than my face.”  
  
Halbarad snorted, “The beard’s ragged enough, to be sure, but I fear even a small wound from that creature.”  
  
“I won’t argue about that, but I can’t heal myself. We have no good choices here, Halbarad. I am way out of my depth. I am not trained to treat the wounds of the dark arts, and may never have the power for it. I can’t do it as tired as I am now. But Daeron’s idea is a good one, and I must try it. My hope is that after some rest, and with any luck, the weather clearing, I can move Rodnor into the sunshine, and I’ll try my best then. I have a small amount of _athelas_ left in my kit. I’ll set it steaming by his side through the night. Its power can probably do more than I.”  
  
Aragorn rubbed his aching eyes. “Beyond this small chance, our best hope for help is Rivendell. I judge we should separate: Halbarad, you and Daeron go to the Valley with all speed, and I will stay here with Rodnor.”  
  
“And try to heal him on your own?” Halbarad glared.  
  
“I must try, I think,” Aragorn murmured. “Or we will lose him, to death or worse than death.”  
  
“Then try tomorrow morning while we wait! If you succeed, we can all four go together. Sharing hunting and guarding, we can move much more quickly.”  
  
“True enough,” Aragorn said. “But if I fail?”  
  
“Then what chance has he anyway? How much time do you think he has?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Aragorn said. “Truth be told, I am afraid. I don’t know what I may find in Rodnor, if I can find anything at all.”  
  
“And you? What will happen to you?”  
  
Aragorn met Halbarad’s vehement glance with a small shrug. “At the least I will need to recover from the test of the healing before I can travel up to speed. Our departure will be delayed by at least a day, and I don’t know how long we will be safe here.”  
  
Halbarad stared at him steadily, his eyes full of doubt, before he answered with his own small shrug. “It seems we have little choice.” Halbarad gripped his shoulder. “You sleep. Daeron and I will watch.”  
  
Aragorn smiled and returned the grip. “Keep the _athelas_ steaming, too. It will do all of us good.”  
  
The _athelas_ was old and crumbled, but the fresh scent that soon filled the air of the small hideout proved it still had power. As Aragorn held Rodnor’s hands and whispered more words of healing, he felt some of the fear and horror gripping his own heart easing away.  
  
~oOo~  
  
Morning brought a cool, crisp, sunny day. Beyond their hiding place, the heath began, its feathery rolling land reaching east and south. Daeron had already left the shelter to set traps and snares for game. Aragorn and Halbarad moved Rodnor to a soft bed of leaves covered with a thick wrap.  
  
“He is quieter this morning,” Aragorn said. “But too pale. Too quiet, perhaps.”  
  
“How do you read the matter?”  
  
Aragorn shook his head in doubt, and knelt silently by the boy’s side, listening to his soft breathing. “I need your help. Heat some water while I prepare. Then stay by me, silent, but watch me for anything that worries you.”  
  
“It all worries me,” Halbarad growled. But he went to fetch water.  
  
Aragorn prepared himself for the healing by standing in a ray of early morning sunshine, breathing in the rain-freshened air with a steady, slow rhythm. He chanted verses beseeching the Valar for strength, and looked back into his memory for every drop of wisdom Elrond had passed to him. Never had he felt so utterly alone.  
  
When Halbarad had heated the water, Aragorn cast the small remnants of the _athelas_ into the steaming bowl and placed it by Rodnor’s head. He took the boy’s hand and called his name, “Rodnor, wake up!” But the boy did not stir, nor his soft breathing change. Aragorn remembered with fear how the change had seized Beleg that night, through a slow, quiet sleep that no one would have wondered at.  
  
He took both of the boy’s wrists his own, seeking for the pulse. He closed his eyes and felt for the pathways. Desperately he searched for some sense of the power, trying to focus it on the boy. For too long he struggled within his own mind, looking for the channels of healing that he feared were not there.  
  
Slowly, slowly it seemed to him that a deep fog settled over the sunny day, and the sounds of the rustling leaves faded. He heard only the beating of his own heart, until suddenly he felt as if he were falling, or as if he were a bird flying, but the sky was dark. He flew through twisty darkness, his fear seething—and a black force hit him like a thunder of water down a mountain.  
  
He cried out and released Rodnor’s hands. The light of the autumn day flooded back, blinding his eyes.  
  
Halbarad’s strong hands gripped his shoulders. “What is it? What happened?”  
  
Aragorn rested his head in his hands as he answered. “I have just learned how right my fear is. Now I must try to heal him.”  
  
“Perhaps you should not,” said Halbarad fiercely.  
  
“We will all be in danger if I do not. Unless you propose to kill him.”  
  
“That is unthinkable,” Halbarad snarled.  
  
“Then let me do my job. But tell me, Halbarad, what did you observe just now?”  
  
“You called Rodnor’s name, is all I heard. You appeared fixed, as if made of stone. Is that how it should be?”  
  
“If anything beyond that happens to me, you must pull me out of it, however you can.”  
  
“I will,” Halbarad said.  
  
Aragorn tried again. Holding Rodnor’s wrists, he slowly reached out. _Rodnor_! _It_ _is_ _I_ , _Aragorn_. _Come_ _back_ _from_ _the_ _dark_ _dream_. _Take_ _my_ _hand_.  
  
He returned to the gloomy night, flying like a bird or whirling like a fallen leaf into a vortex as black as Morgoth’s heart. He reached out for the pathway. _Rodnor_! _Where_ _are_ _you_? The darkness crackled and swirled. But at last he felt the beating of another heart—Rodnor’s. He reached out and grasped the boy’s hands, and it seemed that now they moved away from the vortex, toward a horizon where a dim grey drifted.  
  
Pearly pale light flickered. Aragorn released Rodnor’s hands—  
  
 _A_ _dark_ _night_ _of_ _screams_ _and_ _blood_. _Black_ _wings_ _beat_ _my_ _head_ , _my_ _back_. _I_ _feel_ _no_ _ground_ _beneath_ _my_ _feet_. _The_ _screams_ _I_ _hear_ _are_ _my_ _own_. _But_ _then_ _the_ _gloom_ _parts_ _and_ _a_ _fair_ _Elven_ _face_ _smiles_ _down_ _at_ _me_ , _beseeching_ _me_ _to_ _come_ , _come_ _away_! _His_ _voice_ _speaks_ _to_ _me_ _alone_ : _Beyond_ _the_ _dark_ _wall_ _lies_ _everything_ _you_ _desire_.  
  
 _I_ _see_ _a_ _star_ _glistening_ _at_ _the_ _heart_ _of_ _the_ _gloom_. _A_ _woman’s_ _face_ _grows_ _within_ _the_ _shimmer_. _It_ _is_ _she_ _whom_ _I_ _love_. _Slowly_ , _slowly_ _I_ _retreat_ _to_ _the_ _blackness_.  
  
“Aragorn!”  
  
The sound hit his ears like the harsh croak of a carrion bird.  
  
 _Go_ _away_. _Leave_ _me_ _to_ _the_ _light_.  
  
“Aragorn!”  
  
His head lurched as strong hands shook him. _No_! _Leave_ _me_!  
  
He opened his eyes to find himself on the ground, Halbarad’s desperate face leaning over him. He stared in bewilderment. “What happened?”  
  
“You cried out and fell to the ground.”  
  
Aragorn took a deep breath, and sat up. “Rodnor?”  
  
“He sleeps still, as you see. What happened?” Halbarad asked again.  
  
  
  
The silvery light hovered in his memory, a phantom of sorcery to beguile him. He pushed it away with horror. “I wish I knew.”  
  
He rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled toward the boy. Again he took his hands and called his name—and Rodnor’s eyes flickered open. He smiled weakly. “Aragorn. Have I been asleep?”  
  
“Yes, for too long,” Aragorn said. Joy washed over him at the clarity in the boy’s eyes. Somehow, he knew not how, he had done some good.  
  
“We’ve got some food,” Halbarad said, his grim face lightening with relief. “Are you hungry?”  
  
“Yes!”  
  
Rodnor ate just like a lad of sixteen would who had gone two days without food. Halbarad thrust a bowl in Aragorn’s hands and commanded, “Eat.”  
  
“Still my mother travels with me, I see,” Aragorn chuckled.  
  
“Well, you can laugh, but I can’t. You are white as a ghost.”  
  
“A poor choice of words.” Aragorn frowned. “Don’t say such things.”  
  
“All right, fine. But you’re going to rest now, you and Rodnor both, while Daeron and I restock our supplies. He’s already gathered a fine catch from the snares, and has set them again. And I see signs of late autumn roots around here. How soon can we travel?”  
  
“I don’t know yet,” Aragorn said. The weariness was already rising through his body, dragging at his strength. “For both Rodnor and me, only time will tell.”  
  
  
 _Note_ _to_ _the_ _reader_ : _Thank_ _you_ _for_ _sticking_ _with_ _the_ _story_ , _despite_ _the_ _long_ _interval_ _between_ _updates_. _I_ _assure_ _you_ _that_ _I_ _have_ _every_ _intention_ _of_ _completing_ _this_ _story_ , _but_ _it_ _is_ _difficult_ _to_ _find_ _the_ _time_ _to_ _put_ _the_ _care_ _into_ _it_ _that_ _I_ _feel_ _it_ _deserves_. _Thus_ _you_ _are_ _left_ _on_ _a_ _cliffhanger_ , _alas_ , _for_ _far_ _too_ _long_. _Please_ _leave_ _me_ _a_ _review_ — _that_ _always_ _helps_ _fuel_ _the_ _muse_. _There_ _are_ _some_ _six_ _more_ _chapters_ _to_ _come_.


	29. Shadow of the Elder Days

As she waited for news Gilraen took refuge in her loom, weaving each day till her shoulders ached and then pushing herself to weave yet more. Her soft, fine hands became as rough as once they had been so many years ago when she was a young wife in the Angle, working beside her mother in the Commons.

The ease and beauty of life in Rivendell was driving her mad. Once she had gratefully taken refuge in the drowsy Elven twilight of the Hidden Valley as she mourned her dead husband and tended to her small son. She had turned away with relief from life among the Dúnedain, so hard, so short! But now she could think only of the Rangers in the wild and her kin in the Angle. Chafing at her distance and her weak woman's body, she bent to her loom and worked for the good of her people.

Memories of the past filled her heart and mind. In the Angle at this time of year, when the days were short and dark, snow drifted in the cold stone alleys of the Keep and she had to break the ice in the well to draw water. Here in Rivendell she had servants to do the heavy chores, but in Thurnost everyone, even the chieftain's family, had to work. When as a girl she had listened to the ancient tales in the evening, the wealth and ease of Numenor seemed as magical as the Elven Realms themselves.

It was on such a cold day that first she saw Arathorn when he returned from his years away in the wild. Clutching her shawl around her head and neck, she hurried up the steps into the huge hall of the Commons and, as she swept the woolen cloth from her head, she looked up to see the chieftain, Arador, in happy council with a small group of other men, two of whom were unknown to her. The tallest of them had turned his eyes toward her—eyes that suddenly widened beyond courtesy to a keen appreciation. She remembered how the blood had rushed to her face as recognition came to her and she hurried past the group of men. _Arathorn—the chieftain's son._

That night her father had formally presented her, and her girlhood gave way to a place of bright, confusing emotions and conflicting hearts.

But being the wife of the Chieftain's son had not eased the burden of her work—rather, it had shifted it toward yet more responsibility, of which the most important was bearing children. Of all her duties, that had been both the hardest and the most joyful. Enduring the pain of childbirth, she had comforted herself with the thought that soon she would hear the voice of her son amid the happy voices of the children of the Keep.

Here in Rivendell there were no burials, no tombs, no cancers, no deadly plagues.

Nor were there cries of women in childbirth, babbling babies, and noisy children playing.

There were no children at all, not since Estel had grown up.

One evening Erestor interrupted her journey into the past. "There's no need to continue your weaving, Gilraen," he said gently. "Our scouts are equipped and on the hunt. Please join us in the Hall of Fire."

But she shook her head. "I cannot sit at ease while my people suffer and die and my son is in danger." She lifted the edge of the strong, dark cloth coming off her loom. "I will send this to Thurnost. No one here will want such coarse stuff."

She read amusement in Erestor's eyes. "As you wish." And he bowed and went away.

A slow anger drove her to work even later that night. She knew Erestor meant no malice—he was the kindest of souls and thought only of her comfort—but she could not so easily divorce her own labor from the fate of the Dunedain. And she knew that there were others in Rivendell who did not miss her in the Hall of Fire. She thought of Lindir's beautiful face and cold eyes—he who had said to Elrond of her and her son: "Mortals are not our business."

The words were burned in her heart, swelling now with indignation and love for her people. "Why teach him, Elrond," Lindir had said. "Another Heir of Isildur! In just a little while he will die and there will be another, and maybe another after him, and on and on it goes in this cycle of misery. I've watched you suffer with this through all the years—all for nothing."

Elrond had gotten angry then and Gilraen, flushing hot and cold with shame and indignation, had crept away before they realized she was listening. She had never spoken of what she had heard. The words had not been meant for her ears, she knew, and she had put them out of her mind when she realized that few in Rivendell shared Lindir's views. But she remembered them now as she sent the shuttle back and forth and the length of cloth grew.

As the days passed, it seemed as if the soft music and leafy fragrance of the Valley faded from her senses, giving way to the harsh sounds of the blacksmith's hammer, the cries of the washerwomen, the smell of leather and sweat in the Keep. Little interrupted her concentration, until one day at the sound of long footsteps in the hallway she stiffened and stopped the shuttle short.

No Elf would tread so heavily. _Estel!_ Joy leaping in her heart, she ran to the door and flung it open.

But it was Hallor who stood there, dusty from the road. Behind him loomed a tall young man that for a brief moment of hope she thought was her son after all. But he was not as tall, and his face was unfamiliar.

"Hallor!" she cried wildly. "What's happened? Where's Estel?"

Hallor's face was grave and calm. "He's one day's journey away, Gilraen. May we come in? This is my son, Halbarad. We've come to bring you word, riding ahead of the party accompanying Aragorn. He is safe now."

Relief flooded her heart. "Forgive me! I have lost all courtesy in my fear. Please, come in."

She settled them before the fire and brewed some tea, chafing against her anxiety for the news. "Please, tell me everything."

But as she listened to the story that flowed from Hallor's lips, she gasped with shock and horror and could only cry out, "Beleg! Arathorn! No, no, no," as she wrapped her arms around herself and wept. _Daeron no traitor after all, Beleg dead at her son's hand, the spirit of a malevolent Elf—how was this to be understood?_ But as she struggled to make sense of the enormity of it all, one thing only rose to prominence. "Estel? You say he's safe now?"

"He's getting better under Elrond's care," Hallor said gently. "But he is still very ill. My son was with him for the whole."

Halbarad spoke then for the first time. "He mends, lady. But you will have to ask Elrond to explain to you what's happened. Though I tended him for days alone in the wild, I don't understand it. It's no ordinary illness that he suffers."

Through her panic Gilraen saw the dark exhaustion in Halbarad's grey eyes. "I will go at once to meet them on the road."

Hallor raised his hand. "No, that would be unwise—rather, prepare a sickroom to receive him. He will need all Elrond's care and yours too. They should be here by tomorrow morning. Halbarad and I will leave shortly to search for Daeron and Rodnor, who are still missing in the wild. Meanwhile, Gilraen—prepare yourself."

"I understand," she said. "As always, I obey the chieftain's orders."

Hallor smiled then. "Ah, Gilraen, I am not the chieftain." He stood up and kissed her hand in the manner of the old courtiers, then held it between his own two rough hands like a kinsman and a friend. "I am the chieftain's man and you are his lady mother. When he is himself again, I will serve him as he wishes." He looked down at her thoughtfully. "I always knew that Aragorn would prove a most worthy son of his father, but as men so often will, for good or ill, some doubted it. There will be no more doubts. He is the chieftain by name and by the honor he has won among us. He will take his place at the head of the Rangers. I myself will sit at his right hand if he so wishes."

Halbarad said firmly, "And I at his left."

"Yes," Hallor nodded. "You, too, have earned your Ranger star, my son. And Daeron will be reinstated to full rank."

Gilraen rose and courtseyed to them both. "On behalf of the chieftain, I thank you."

And she rejoiced that Estel had earned the respect and love of the bravest and hardest men in Middle-Earth, the Rangers of the North.

~oOo~

No words could have prepared Gilraen for the gaunt, hollow-eyed stranger who bore her son's name when he arrived toward noon the next day. Unconscious, he lay in a covered litter borne by four Elves of Elrond's household.

"Don't touch him," Elrond cautioned, holding his arm before her. He was booted and cloaked, muddy from the journey.

"Why ever not?"

"I had to put him in a sleep for the journey. Wait, please." Elrond turned away from her and in a low voice gave orders to the bearers. She stood trembling, her hand at her throat, her anger and fear rising, as the litter was carried through the doors. When Elrond turned back to face her, he pressed her arm with his warm, firm grip. "Don't be afraid. He will recover."

"How can I believe that after all I have seen and heard?"

He took her tense hands and held them. "Outside the protection of Imladris, there was too much danger for the care that Estel needs. We had to flee here with all speed and the creatures of the Enemy were on our trail. Here in the Valley, he can begin at last the real work of full healing."

"Healing from what? Tell me!"

"I fear that some power of the Sorcerer remains in Estel's blood. Here I can provide the safety that will enable Estel to drive him out. It will be very hard, Gilraen, but we will succeed. I swear it."

"How do you know? This creature hunts the Heirs of Isildur," she cried, "he lusts for the blood of the royal line. If what I have been told is true, he murdered my husband. He murdered my husband's father. He brought the power of Sauron into the Keep itself."

"That is true," Elrond said. "At last I know the truth of the threat I felt to the child Aragorn all those years ago. Indeed, if you had stayed in the Angle, he would not have survived childhood."

"I don't find that comforting," Gilraen said bitterly. "Yes, you were so right to bring us here and to ban the Dúnedain from the Valley. But why didn't you drive out the threat then? Why did so many others have to die?"

Elrond's serenity did not waver in the face of her anger. "I kept everyone outside of Imladris from Estel because I did not know from where the danger came. I hid him even from Gandalf the Grey, who will not forgive me when he learns of it. If only I had known—have I not reproached myself? If only Beleg had come to me for help! Was it chance that he never came again to Rivendell, or did the creature keep him away, I wonder? Even I cannot see all things, Gilraen."

She hung her head in regret and dismay. He was right, she knew.

"This being," Elrond continued, "I have been trying to find out who he is. I know only that he remembers the Elder Days. Do you understand what I am saying?"

"He is the spirit of a houseless Elf, I have been told," she answered, "and he still lives to hunt my son."

"Yes," Elrond said. "That's why the full healing could not take place till now. I had to put all of my power into guarding Aragorn as we fled to safety. I believe that the Sorcerer's true name will tell us much and that I intend to find out with Estel's help. Do you understand now why we must be so careful? This creature is probably now in the body of a wolf, if I understand aright all I have learned. I need your help, Gilraen. You and I have Estel's greatest trust and will bear the greatest burden."

She nodded. "I cannot say that I understand, but I know that the answer lies with you."

Elrond bent his grave eyes on her. "No, Gilraen. The answer lies with Aragorn. If he had not had the strength that he does, the Sorcerer would have won already. Come to me in Estel's chamber when I call for you."

~oOo~

Still unconscious, warm blankets wrapped around his long body, Aragorn lay in the bed he had slept in as a youth. His hair and beard, cropped short for his illness, stuck out like thorny brush from his head and face. Gilraen could have wept at the dark circles around his eyes and his hollow cheekbones. He lay in an unnaturally still sleep as if on the verge of death, breathing shallow, raspy breaths.

"He has lost so much strength," she cried.

"He will regain it and more," Elrond reassured her. "In time. I will wake him from the heavy sleep now."

Dressed in flowing robes, Elrond lay one hand on the sick man's brow and the other on his chest, just over the heart. His face closed in concentration as he lowered his eyes and murmured words she could not understand. For too long it seemed as if nothing had occurred and she feared that Elrond would fail after all. But at last some color began to appear in Aragorn's face and his breathing deepened. Almost he seemed to smile in his unconsciousness.

Elrond turned to Gilraen. "Watch him. He will sleep naturally now and begin to come back to us. It may be difficult at times—he will see the bad dreams and fears which were suppressed in the heavy sleep. Your presence at his side is the best aid we can give. Call me if there is any fever."

And so Gilraen sat at her son's sickbed all the rest of that day and into the night. Now indeed his sleep became restless: he moaned and tossed as if in the grip of hideous nightmares. She stroked his rough hair and tried to calm his disquiet, but he did not seem to know she was there.

As the dawn approached he was seized by fever and chills. Alarmed, she sent the serving maid to fetch Elrond. Again Elrond pressed his elegant healer's hands on Aragorn's brow and heart and the sick man's torment seemed to ease.

"He struggles toward the light," Elrond told her. "It is well. I feel his strength in the pathways."

"The pathways!" she said. "I see bodily suffering. How can he endure this?"

Elrond regarded her gravely. "His body revenges itself on the torment of the mind. The sorcerer is no longer here. He cannot pass the borders of the Valley which are under my command. What Aragorn fights now is the trace of his memory and power. Gilraen, talk to him. I think he will hear your words even in his dreams. Your voice may help to bring him back to us."

"I have only sorrow and dread to speak of," she cried. "How can that help?"

"You think, too, of the baby you lost in that dark time," Elrond said.

Gilraen had known Elrond long enough not to be surprised that he could read her heart. "Yes," she whispered. For she knew that the Sorcerer had also killed the child growing in her womb those twenty-one years ago when Arathorn died. That last night, before she and the two-year-old Estel fled from Thurnost with the sons of Elrond, she had sat with the wounded Beleg and touched him and the taint had entered her blood too.

The memory of pain seized her belly as if the child died yet again. She saw a baby's face, then the lovely eyes and smile of a young woman—her daughter as she would have been. _Estel's sister._ She wept anew. "My baby," she cried to Elrond. "He killed her. And he killed Ariel, my husband's sister, and her baby son, too."

"I fear so," Elrond said. "But he will not kill Estel. Talk to him. He will hear your voice."

Aragorn stirred, his eyes, still unseeing, opening briefly. "Mother," he muttered. "Mother."

Resuming her vigil, Gilraen talked of the lost years. When Estel was growing up, she had sealed the past in her heart, since she knew no word of his true identity could reach his ears. Now memory burst from her in a torrent. She spoke about Arathorn and his joy at the birth of his son, a ruddy, long-limbed babe with a robust cry and a cap of thick dark hair. "Even then I knew you would bear my unruly locks, my son," she said, smiling in her tears. "I bade the midwife place you first in your father's arms and he named you Aragorn son of Arathorn, and he wept. Only twice did I ever see tears in my husband's eyes—that day, and the day nearly one year before when he returned to Thurnost, bearing the news that Trolls had seized his father. We made you that day, my lord husband and I, conceiving a son to ease our grief."

Was it her own foresight or merely a wish that believed the small bud of life within her had been a girlchild? No matter. She spoke to her son of his lost sister and wondered if he could truly hear her words. And the tears came yet again when, settled in the chair by the bedside, lost in dreams and regrets of the past, Gilraen heard him murmur in his sleep, "Little sister."

He did not wake, but he would whisper snatches of words, sometimes of no meaning to Gilraen. But when he called out, "Father!" she wondered which one he meant, and when he murmured, "Arwen," her heart broke and she was glad Elrond was not there to hear.  
  
It seemed as if the torment would go on forever. After three days Elrond began to look troubled, which alarmed her even more. After again laying his hands on Aragorn's brow and heart, he turned gravely to Gilraen and said, "It's time for me to join him in the struggle."

This time he sat on a bench at the bedside and picked up both of Aragorn's wrists, holding them tightly. Gilraen watched as Elrond sunk into a deep meditation the like of which she had never seen. Its intensity, however, was short-lived, for suddenly Elrond leaped up, his fair Elven face transformed by feral hate.

"Moredhel!" he cried.

Gilraen could only stare as the Master of Rivendell rocked on his feet, gasping. "Ai!" he cried. "The Enemy's arts are deep."

"What is it?"

"I know who the creature is. His power was— _is_ —immense. For he is the one we called Moredhel, the Black Elf. For three Ages he has hunted the Children of Lúthien."

Through her tears Gilraen could see the years of sorrow in Elrond's ageless face. "What do you mean?" she whispered.

"He killed my mother's brothers," Elrond said. "He was the cruel servant of Celegorm who left Eluréd and Elurín in the forest to starve. Ahando, he named himself, the herald of Fëanor, who followed his sons in the wars and urged ever more bloodshed in the fulfillment of the Oath. His sword was among the first to draw blood in Alqualondë; he it was who threw the torch on the white ships and burned Fëanor's youngest son in the hold. He imprisoned Lúthien in Celegorm's caverns. And finally he met with the death he deserved—at the hands of my foster father, Maedhros son of Fëanor."

Elrond's eyes were lost in memory. Gilraen stared at him, seeing almost with fear the flinty resolve in the sorrow of his face.  "Maedhros killed him for the murder of my uncles, the twin sons of Dior who would have been lords of Menegroth, had they lived. That deed Maedhros long rued as the worst coming from that cursed Oath.

"But that did not end his evil, as we now know," Elrond said sadly, "he we called the Sorcerer of Rhudaur was Ahando in a Man's body. It is one of the Enemy's worst deeds: that a houseless Elf would force a Man's spirit from his body and take it over. Who knows how many bodies he has inhabited over these long years?"

He stood silent, staring down at Aragorn in his sickbed. "Gilraen, do not fear," he said. "All my strength will be bent to the defeat of this creature." He smiled and she saw again the Master of Rivendell, kind as summer.

"I will join Estel in the pathways."


	30. Aragorn Walks the Pathways

I walk in blissful memory among the birches of Rivendell, Arwen's hand in mine. Late summer flowers, white and yellow and pink, strew the green-gold forest floor. The warm breeze lifts petals from the trees and grass and brushes our faces with their softness.  She laughs as fluttering blossoms catch in her hair, pale blue against the dark blue-black gloss of her long tresses falling loose over her shoulders. I feel the warm silkiness of her slender fingers in my hand, her fragrance surrounds me, her whispered words caress my ear. For this, I would endure any torment.

But in the distance thunder crackles and a wolf howls.

The sky darkens. Rain falls—not the warm rains of summer in Rivendell, but the harsh icy rain of the northern wild. My empty hand now holds only sorrow. The birches and the flowers are gone, and I see only gloomy leafless trees and brush amid a stony ground. "Arwen!" I call. My head bent against the wind and rain, I see a faint trail through the tangled branches. I follow it. I hear the hooting of owls on the hunt. The trail disappears, and I am stumbling on sharp rocks, falling to my hands and knees, leaving a trail of blood from my cut palms. "Arwen!"

I can hear Halbarad's voice. "Dream of her!" he is telling me. "Think of her! Fight the Enemy!"

_I'm trying_ , I say to him. But I can't hear him any more. The wind is roaring in my ears, the thorns tearing my clothing, and I feel the menace of the black wings of my fever dreams swooping upon me. The dark wings will grab me and I will no longer be Aragorn but his creature. All around me now, loping through the dusky underbrush, are grey shapes, and the howl of the wolf tears the very air.  
  
"No!" I cry. Blinded by rain and wind, I falter onwards until suddenly, with a cry of terror, I fall. I try to catch myself, but no—I plunge into icy water. I peer before me and see only water, more water. I kick off my boots and thrust my body into the deep, chill currents and begin to swim. If I must, I will drown before I let him take me.  
  
I swim until my body trembles with fatigue. No strength left, I let go, sink, sink, sink. All is black and fear grabs me again. Here is no release after all. He will take me dying.  
  
A light appears, hovering above me, rich and sweet. It grows to a round sparkling window; through the trembling water I can see a wood of silver-bark trees heavy with golden flowers.   
  
"Estel!"  
  
It is her voice. Her beautiful face appears in the window, searching for me.   
  
"Estel!" she calls again.  
  
I reach for her with my last strength. My lungs bursting for air, I come to the surface again. Golden light shimmers about me, green ferns murmur songs of peace. The water now is soft and warm, like a pond on a summer's day. I half-swim, half-float to the bank, and fall back exhausted. "Rest," says her voice. "I will hold him back for a little."

I gasp for breath. "Rest," she says again. "When you can go on, follow the path."

"There is no path," I cry, and I can hear the despair in my own voice.

"You will find it," she says.

I close my eyes. Do I sleep? Perhaps. I feel strength returning to my body and mind. When at last I open my eyes and rise to my feet, the wood is dark again. I see no golden window, no starry eyes. I plunge ahead, looking for the path. I find only a narrow trail littered with dry brown leaves, fit only for beasts. When I pass, sharp twigs catch at my body from both sides; I must duck under lowering branches.

And again the wolf howls.

I stop, my heart pounding with fear. "Arwen! Where are you?"  
  
I hear her voice from far away. "I can come no longer. Follow the path. Farewell, Estel."  
  
"No!" I thrust out my hands blindly, but my hand touches only dry leaves and thorny brush. I crouch there, my tears dripping into the dry forest floor. "Follow the path," she says again, so faintly that I wonder if the voice comes from my own heart. I turn to look back at the pool where first I saw her. But instead of the dark water I see in the shadows of the hoary trees a grey wolf. His yellow eyes stare into mine: It is the Sorcerer. I know him by the Elven light in his wolf eyes.

I turn in panic and stumble through the dark, crashing down the path of dry brown leaves.

"Fly then, little Dúnadan," he cries after me. "You may hide for a time, but I am within you and I will never leave. Even now I learn your secrets."  
  
Screaming defiance, I move through the dark trees. The grey shape shadows me as I flee. It is only a matter of time before he catches me.

I do not dare to stop for rest. Panting, my lungs aching, my feet sore, I run and run. At last it seems that dawn is near, if there is a dawn in this place: the sky above seems to pale. Ahead I hear a strange crash and roar as of a thunderstorm, or maybe a massive waterfall in the mountains. Suddenly the path opens up and I step out into the open. Before me stretches a sight that I have never seen with my waking eyes, but I know it from the tales and the paintings of Rivendell: the sea. Marveling I stare at the endless water, grey-blue waves surging and crashing, white foam at their crests, rushing up the sandy beach and slipping back into the turmoil of the sea.

But the wolf is catching up with me. I begin to run along the beach, my bare feet sinking into the wet sand. My enemy follows, waiting for me to give out, when the kill will be easy and swift.

Suddenly I see a figure moving swiftly down the beach toward me. He calls to me: " _Senya!"_

I know that voice. I stumble toward him. The wolf, snarling, stops in his tracks. Elrond enfolds me in his embrace. I know those warm, strong arms and the touch of the fingers gripping my shoulders: Their power soothed my childhood fevers. I lean my weary head against his shoulder. " _Atarinya_ , I cannot fight any more."

"We will fight the enemy together. Look."

I raise my face and look toward the enemy on the beach.  

But it is no wolf who draws near. A mighty Elven form appears before us, his eyes aglow, triumph lighting his face. He carries no weapon. He needs none.

"Greetings, Elrond Half-Elven. My last revenge will be sweet and long."

"Ahando," my foster father says. Never have I seen such fierceness in his eyes, he who is ever kind and strong. "Moredhel, the cruel servant of Celegorm who murdered my mother's brothers."

"So you Exiles call me," the Sorcerer answers. "And it was for this deed that you named me the Black Elf. Yes, I took Dior's two sons, bound them and left them to starve in the forest."

"And for that you lost your Elven body to the blade of Maedhros son of Fëanor, my foster father. He himself tried to rescue the princes, but when he could not find them, he hunted you down and cut out your heart."

"Maedhros was a weakling," sneers Moredhel. "In the end he could not do what was needed and fell to the Valar's curse. He should have killed you and your mongrel brother and finished off your pathetic race. Half-Elven!" He spits at Elrond's feet.

My foster father says slowly, "You speak with much disdain for the race of Men and the Half-Elves. And yet you steal their bodies for your own need."

Moredhel smiles. "Yes, and I will do it again. As soon as a Man or an Elf comes within my reach, I will return to the seen world. Then my master's power will rise even stronger in the North, and Angmar will be reborn. This time we will not fail."

"Do not raise the victory cup to your lips before the battle is fought," Elrond says. "For this war has gone on since the beginning of the world, and only the world's end will tell the victor."

"Spare me your foresight," Moredhel says. "Against the power of Barad-dur there is no victory."

"No victory by force of arms, perhaps," Elrond says. "But we have other weapons that you cannot understand. Love, hope, courage."

"Phantoms," Moredhel says. "I hate you and your witless dreams. For the Valar safe behind the mountains of Pelori will pay you no heed."

"Your hate comes from fear," Elrond says, his voice ringing with authority. "Huor, my grandfather's father, spoke true words to Turgon, my grandmother's father: 'though we part here for ever, and I shall not look on your white walls again, from you and from me a new star shall arise.' That hope is the doom of you and your foul master."

Moredhel shifts his piercing gaze to me. His eyes glitter with malice. "This is your Hope? This Man? He would be wholly in my power but for your interference, _peredhel._ Already he has done murder at my bidding."

I cannot keep the cry from my lips. "No! You murdered Beleg, you destroyed him. His spirit was gone from his body."

"So ready to believe everything I say. Ah, you will serve well." Moredhel's voice is soft and wheedling. "Beleg wanders houseless as a ghost and cannot leave the bounds of Middle-earth. He will never be at peace. His death with haunt you all the days of your wretched, little life."

" _Senya_ , do not heed these lies," Elrond says. He gazes steadily at the Enemy. "The Age of Men will soon be upon us, Ahando, and you and your master will not taint it with your evil. The last deed of the Noldor before we go into the West will be to drive you out of Middle-earth."

Moredhel grins, mocking. "Are you so certain you will be admitted, Half-Elven? You and your half-caste children?"

Elrond ignores these taunting words. He lifts his arm and from the ring on his hand a silver-blue light begins to glow. "You will leave this place now. Begone! Your spirit has no power here in the pathways of our hope."

The Sorcerer's answer is a snarl as he again becomes the wolf. But he has final words for us. "I will find the Heir of Isildur again, and I will kill him when he is far from your help."

Then it is as if the world has melted in a blazing forge. A roar fills my ears, and the sky turns. We fall to the damp sand, my foster father and I, and I do not know sky, earth, feet, head. A long dark time comes.

~oOo~

"Wake up, _senya_."

I open my eyes. Above me, a limpid blue sky, and bending over me is the loving face of my foster father, the only father I have ever known. But we are no longer at the shore of the pounding sea.

"What is this place?" I say.

In answer he reaches out his strong hands, and helps me to my feet. I gasp with the effort of standing, and sway, clutching his arm. I hold tight until the sky stops spinning above me. Around me is a field of wild grass and heather. In the far distance I see the towers and walls of a great city.

"Estel, the pathways are now open to you. See!"

I look to the north where his hand points. And wending its way through the fields there is a trail, little more than a faint trace where the grass does not grow so well. "What is this place?" I say again.

"The pathway of your power," he says. "You must learn to walk it."

"Where will I go?"

"The Powers have given us this gift; what they may show you I do not know. Every man treads the pathways alone."

"And you, _atarinya_?"

"We will meet again when the time comes. Go!"

As he commands I follow the faint trail in the grass for a while, then turn to wave good-bye. But he is no longer there. I am utterly alone. Taking a deep breath I continue on my way. Passing down into a shallow valley, the trail grows wider and more worn; I see the footprints of a man in a patch of mud. But no living creature is there.

Soon the trail becomes a common dirt lane, just wide enough for a farmer's wagon, here and there a patch of grass with a few daisies, or maybe a stone marker with carving so eroded with time that I cannot read it. If this is the pathway of my power, it is a dubious power. But as I walk I realize that the air is brisk and fresh, my body again now strong and fit. My torn and shaggy clothing gone, I am dressed in good strong Ranger gear, but I carry no weapon. I set into a steady rhythm of long strides.

I see sheep grazing in the wild fields, which are giving way to patches of farmland. Across one field I see a plowman with his horse; soon I pass a roughhewn house with a barn in the back. A woman is feeding her chickens. She nods. "Good day to you," she says in the Common Tongue. I return her greeting.

I continue on my way and pass more farms, more people, all simple folk. It seems to be a goodly land of wheat, oats and fruit trees. Sheep graze in the open fields.  Ahead of me the walls of the city are growing as I come nearer.

It is a city of Men, prosperous and bustling, with three vast towers looming over all. Before the walls is a busy market of fruit, grain, bread, cheeses, handiwork well-made and sturdy. Now the path divides. Which way do I follow? I go where my feet take me, without hesitation or seeming choice. I pass quays at the edge of a vast lake where ships laden with goods lie docked.

My feet take me to the middle tower, where I see the banner of the Númenoreans whipping in the wind from the lake, but I do not enter through the beautiful carven archway. I walk around the outskirts of the tower, where outbuildings, workshops, stables, and kitchens lie. At last I come to a low door in a small house, and within I find a woman at her spinning wheel—a woman of the people, with a vast apron over her homespun dress. The room is otherwise entirely empty.

"Good day, goodwife," I say in the common tongue.

She does not cease her work. "Have you come to see my wares?" she asks.

"If you will show me," I answer.

"There are many to choose from," she says. "Go within and see."

I see that in the corner of the room lies another low door. I pass through to see a long hall hewn of stone, the walls lined with tapestries.  It is very quiet; the bustle of the city does not penetrate the stone. I begin to pace the hall, and soon find that other hallways branch off to left and right—many of them, vanishing into an unknown end. I am in a vast maze. I wonder if I keep walking if I will ever find the way out.

I stop and look at the hangings around me. Many show people and places that I have never seen, but know from the ancient tales: the Dwarf kingdoms, the beauty of Menegroth, the Meneltarma in Númenor that is no longer. Some are scenes of the everyday life of Men—a blacksmith, a weaver, a shepherd with his flock, a washerwoman.

"Which way am I to choose?" I murmur. "What have these to do with me?"

I keep walking. There is no order or pattern in the tapestries that I can tell. I see warfare, burning towns, Orcs armed with black bows and arrows. I see great cities from the far South and East—these I know from the books of history in Rivendell. I see a harbor of ships in flames. I see Isildur at the defeat of Sauron; he holds the broken shard of Narsil in his gloved hand and he is weeping. I see a fleet of black ships sailing up a vast river.

I see my own mother and the walls of Thurnost. I see Rivendell, timeless and never changing. Then I cry out in horror at the next tapestry: Rivendell is besieged by an army of Orcs, the roof of Elrond's House in flames and the bodies of Elves dead in a hopeless battle.

I walk on, awe and wonder and anguish growing in my heart.

The very last tapestry I see shows a young Elf-woman much like Arwen, or maybe she is Lúthien. She is sitting on a rich green lawn, her feet bare, her hair in braids down her back. She is laughing and holding out her arms to a small boy standing in the grass. He is black-haired, an Elf-child from his great beauty. Is this a scene of the past—Lúthien with Dior, her son? Or is this Arwen at some time to come? Dare I hope the child is also mine?

Tears in my eyes from hope or despair, I do not know, to my surprise I see again the door back to the woman's workshop.

I step through the low doorway to the simple, bare room. She is still there, spinning.

"Have you found what you seek, Aragorn son of Arathorn?" she asks, looking into my eyes.

"I do not know," I say. "I saw many beautiful things and many terrible things, but I did not see myself."

"Not yet," she says. "The thread is not yet woven for your tale. Many long years of hardship and toil lie before you."

"What must I do?" I cry.

"Follow the path."

"Which path do I choose?"

"I cannot tell you. Look in your own heart."

And she stood up and seemed to grow in size, her humble garments falling from her. She is now robed in white, her face suffused with power.

"Will you walk the Paths of the Dead, Elessar?"

And with that she shrank back to the spinster she had been, and turning her face away from me, again took up her spinning.

Awe and fear shiver up my back and I shield my eyes from the sight of her. The Paths of the Dead! Has she cursed me? Questions seethe in my mind, but I dare not speak to her again.

Pulling my hood over my face to hide my dread, I leave her and continue on my journey. Days go by, it seems. Always I walk, seeing many people and things all around me. At last I am again on the shore of the great sea, and there is my foster father, as he had said.

I greet him silently, embracing. We gaze at each other. He does not need to tell me that I must not speak of what I have seen.

"We are now in the pathways of my memory," he says at last. His grey eyes, full of light, look out upon the horizon. "Here on the strand of Lindon, two ages ago, I bade farewell to my brother. He loved the sea, as our father did. I loved the mountains."

Together we stand gazing upon the far, far meeting of sea and sky. I seem to see a gleam as of white sails on the edge of the world.

"I never saw him again," Elrond says.

"But surely—" I stumble on my words. "You could have gone to Númenor? It was no short time that Elros ruled there."

"No short time in the counting of Men," Elrond says. "For me, it was too long and too short all at once. I could not bear to say good-bye yet again, or to see him failing in his Mortal flesh. Then, at last, he made the choice given to the Númenoreans and laid down his life."

My heart rises in my throat, and I feel as if I will faint with horror. Or so says the Elven part of me, the part that had not seen age and the failure of the body—not until I had come to Thurnost.

Elrond turns his eyes full of light—so like his daughter's—to my face. I feel naked to his gaze. "Estel I named you," he says. "Have you never wondered why it's you, and not a child of my body, who is so named?"

I shake my head. Words cannot capture the tangle of love, hope, and reverence that is my feeling for my foster father.

"It is a salutation," Elrond says. "If we have hope for the future of Men, it rests with you."

"Of Men," I murmur.

Elrond turns on me then, suddenly fierce. "There is no other. The days of sunshine for the Eldar lie in the past. Only you, the Followers, have a future in this world. We, the Elves, will dwell only beyond the reach of Middle-earth."

"I don't understand."

"Estel," he says, his voice at once pleading and commanding. "In Men lies the future. Elros knew this. I did not. Not then. Only through you will the Children of Lúthien live to bless the Age of Men. For an Age I have guarded and taught the heirs of my brother, hoping for a future for this world."

"The Dúnedain owe you a debt that can never be paid," I say.

"You still do not understand," he says. "Elros knew that we must part. He to ensure the future of Men, I to foster his sons, grandsons, and great-grandsons through the long years of defeat so that his sacrifice would not be in vain."

"Sacrifice," I say. "Yes, it is a diminishing to choose the Followers. But I have no choice in the matter, Master Elrond. A Man I was born, and a Man I shall die."

"True," he says. "Yet that is your strength. You find hope in the uncertainty of the future. You believe that despite the defeats of the present, in the future you will triumph. Your children and your grandchildren will live past you."

Hope, despair—I know not what—speaks to me then. I look into his eyes. "Master Elrond, you tell me to have hope, but you do not speak to me of the dearest hope of my heart."

He turns away from me and says softly, "Need I tell you that my daughter is too far above you?"

I flinch at the truth of his words. "Yet she came to me in the pathways and spoke to me through a mirror of light."

For an eternity he is silent. Then he turns his bright eyes back to me. "Would you ask her to make the choice that my brother made—that diminishing?"

I shudder with the horror of it. "Never." Yet I remember the tapestry of the young woman with her little son.

"Indeed, she will face no choice to stay in Middle-earth unless you come between us and bring one of us, me or you, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world. My son, you do not yet know what you ask of me."

Then his voice changes from sorrow and regret to command. "And you do have a choice, Aragorn son of Arathorn: what to do with the years that are given to you, short though they may be. If you would be worthy of my daughter, many years of trial lie before you. We will speak no more of this, now or for a long time to come."

I am alone again on the shore of the sea.

~oOo~

Somehow I know that my body is in Rivendell now, resting in a soft bed. I see my mother and feel the press of her lips on my brow. But my spirit moves still in the far-off land. I do not see the wolf. I do not hear his howls. Instead I hear the voices of my kin: the voice of Saelind giving me her blessing; my grandmother Ivorwen's wise words; Halbarad's hearty laugh.

Then another comes to me, his fair face youthful and strong. I know him. "Beleg! Forgive me."

"Aragorn, take my hand," he says. "The Sorcerer no longer haunts me. Let me show you before I leave the world forever."

I grip his strong warrior's hand and his memory floods my burdened heart.

Beleg's voice murmurs: "Early spring in Thurnost was ever the best time, and that spring promised to be the loveliest yet. No doubt my own happiness in my lovely wife, Ariel, Arathorn's sister, embellished what Yavanna had made, despite the sadness that still gripped us at her miscarriage of our child. But I will always remember that one day when Arathorn and I returned from the Wild to be greeted by our wives and his small son, dark hair flying as he scampered on his sturdy legs to grab his father's coat. 'My little prince!' shouted Arathorn as he swung his son up into the air. And the boy laughed with delight, and I felt a pang of envy and hope that soon I, too, would have a son.  
  
"We'd missed the boy's second birthday, being on the road as we were. I don't know what moved him—some premonition of what was to follow?—but he chose that day to show Aragorn the insignia of the Heir of Isildur. 'Don't touch, my little one, for you are too small for so great a weapon,' he said. He held the boy on his lap as he lay the shards of Narsil on the table. The red gem on the hilt glowed like deep fire. 'The sword of Elendil, the greatest heirloom of our kingship. Some day it will be reforged and the one who bears it then will be a great king.'  
  
"Arathorn's deep voice recited the verses. Maybe it was the first time the boy had heard them, at least to understand:  
  
_Who shall reforge me?_  
Who shall he be?  
Who shall be the king restored?   
Who shall lead the host of Men?  
Who shall wield the flame of the West,  
The Sword of the Sun and the Moon?  
  
" 'It may be you, my little prince,' Arathorn said. 'You may be that great king, my son.' "


	31. They Also Serve Who Only Stand and Wait

_"Estel, my son!"_

_Mama is calling me, but her voice is faint and far away. And papa's lap is so warm, his arms so strong, that I do not want to leave. I reach out one finger toward the beautiful sword on the table. Papa's large hand closes on my small one. "When you are bigger, little one," the sonorous voice says, "I will teach you to wield it."_

_"Estel!" mama's voice insists, nearer now, clearer…._

_…As the dark room in Thurnost gives way to the winter light of Rivendell._

Aragorn opened his eyes. Above him stretched the wooden beams of his bedroom in Elrond's House, carved with birds and beasts and stars and ships, and at the edge of his vision, his mother's anxious face. He tried to smile, but his mouth was dry, his lips chapped. "Water," he whispered. He struggled to lift himself up in the bed.

"Shh," she said, and, lifting a mug, made as if to hold it to his lips, but he had eased his shoulders onto a fat pillow against the bedstead and reached for the mug with one hand, so thin he could not recognize it as his own. He drank cool, earthy water—Rivendell water, the best he had ever had.

As Gilraen hovered about him, slowly he hoisted himself up on his elbows and drew his legs from under the covers. He clutched the edge of the bed with lean, trembling hands, his bare feet planted on the sheepskin at the bedside. "I am as weak as a kitten," he said with disgust. He looked up into her face and smiled. "Thank you."

She laughed happily. "You will mend. You have been ill a long time."

The black mist shrouded his sight again and he shuddered. "Yes. It was a hard struggle. But I gained some things as well." He thought of the beautiful face of his beloved in the golden mirror. _She came to me._ But he would not speak of that. "I saw my father."

She caught her breath. "Ah, Estel." A hesitation. "Are you sure?"

"I was two years old again. He held me on his lap and showed me Narsil." He would not tell her that in his dark nightmares under the spell of the Sorcerer, he had also seen his father's death at the hands of the Orcs. "Where is it?"

She gestured at the large, brass-bound trunk against the far wall. "Safe. It has suffered no harm."

"Let me see it."

She brought it to him in its worn scabbard, the old leather hiding the Dúnedain's chief treasure. He did not draw the blade, but caressed the golden hilt with its red gem, remembering it in the hands of the Sorcerer as it hovered near his throat. _May I live to see the day it is reforged_ , he prayed, _and to wield it against our enemies, whether I be king or not._  He then nodded at his mother to take it away.

He rose to his feet, shaking slightly, and slipped into soft woolen slippers and a furred robe. Sitting in a chair before the fire, he took a deep breath and began to take stock of his body. Weak, yes, but whole, each part moving as it should, the muscles beginning to wake. The knife cut on his chin had healed to a small raised scar that he could feel with his fingertips under his rough beard. "The dagger?" he asked.

"What dagger?"

"The silver blade I took from—him," he said.

"Elrond had it melted. He said that he had seen it, or one just like it, during the wars with Angmar, but only now do we know what it did to its victims."

Aragorn shivered at what had almost happened to Rodnor and to him. "Rodnor and Daeron? Are they here?"

Her cheeks reddened slightly as she shook her head. "No. Rangers are looking for them. So far there is no word."

"Then how did you find us—" But then he knew. "The Queen's falcons. I heard them calling in my dreams."

"Yes. They led Elrond to you, though he said he already knew you were in danger. How, he did not explain."

But Aragorn, remembering the flash of blue light on the shore of the far sea, now knew that Elrond had powers far beyond what he had ever guessed. "He is the Master of Rivendell and would be High King of the Noldor but for his own refusal to take the title. Where is he?"

"He left you in my care," she said. "You slept for several hours after he joined you in the ordeal, whatever it was. He says that you should come to him when you are ready, and he will instruct you in the use of the power. I don't understand these deep matters." She took a deep breath. "Elrond has told me many strange and wonderful things. He says that you drove the evil taint from Daeron and from Rodnor, and you defeated it within yourself."

"For me it is a memory of horror. Do not speak of it."

"When you are ready, Elrond says," she said gently. "Until then, rest, eat, recover your strength."

After a thoughtful moment, Aragorn looked up to his mother and smiled. "I think I will take a bath."

~oOo~

It was like Elrond, Aragorn knew, to leave his foster son to choose the time of his own healing. At first he wondered if he would be able to bear the wait, the tedium of recovery—but found, to his own surprise, that he seemed to have acquired something of the virtue of patience. For the first few days, when he was not resting in his chamber, he wandered the hallways of the House, visiting old friends from his childhood—the cooks in the vast kitchens, from whom he had often begged treats, or the workshops of the carpenters and joiners, or the stables and kennels filled with horses, hounds, and hawks—as he again got used to the movement of his own body. Then, wrapped in furs and warm boots, he began to walk outside in the gardens and woods. Even in the winter chill Rivendell was beautiful; the bitterest snows of the mountains did not penetrate into the Valley.

At night he sometimes had bad dreams of his ordeal, but soon found that he had also gained from the struggle. His sense of hearing and awareness of other creatures had grown more acute, almost as if he could feel with his feet that a fox dwelt in a den in the ground below. When he touched the bark of a tree, he felt its life surging under his warm hand. Far above he heard the hunting cries of an eagle and knew what prey the bird was stalking. In wonder he explored further and further as his strength returned.

He never saw Elrond, but from time to time he heard from Erestor that news had come of the campaign against the Sorcerer and his wolves and Orcs. The Rangers and the Elves were having little luck in hunting them down; the enemy seemed to have vanished into the earth itself. But the scouts kept up their vigilant guard around the entire Trollfells, expecting that when the warmer weather came, the enemy would again be busy. And still there was no news of Daeron and Rodnor, and fear grew that they were lost—and with them, the Ring of Barahir.

Each day, as the evening quenched the light of the sun, he studied history, poetry and the lore of healing out of the books in Elrond's vast library. Here he had spent many days in his youth, taking his lessons in mathematics, natural philosophy, history and the tongues of Elves and Men. But the library was so vast and so old that as a growing boy he had touched only a small part of the wisdom that slept there.

He read voraciously of the history of the First Age, seeking always for the story of Ahando and his deeds, but little was said beyond what he already knew. Guilty of many evil deeds he may have been as the servant of Celegorm, but what had brought him into the service of Sauron the Abhorred? That question was not answered, and Aragorn wondered if anyone would ever know.

He sought out the annals of the Northern Kingdom and found the words that he remembered from the archives in Thurnost:

_The Witch-King of Angmar was Sauron's most fearsome servant, the Lord of the Ringwraiths himself, yet many others, albeit of lesser power, served him too. Little is known of some, for they fled when the power of Gondor, joined with the Men and Elves of the North, crushed Angmar at last._

_After the last prince of the Dúnedain fled, the lord of Rhudaur in its later years was a king of the hill folk, but the wise know that the real command in that fell land was held by a sorcerer trained in Sauron's evil arts. He was no wraith, but his power was second only to that of the Witch-King. It may be that he bore one of the lesser rings or had another source of power that is yet unknown. None knew his name, and perhaps he had forgotten it himself, but some tell that he was a Black Númenorean whose life had been prolonged by unnatural and evil means._

_Dark-haired and grey-eyed, noble of bearing, he insinuated himself into the counsels of the first kings of Rhudaur and so corrupted them. Every year, some said, on the darkest day of the winter, he would drink the blood of a newborn babe to renew the life within him. In this fashion he lived many hundreds of years._

But now they knew it was no blood of a newborn babe, indeed, but something just as horrible: the theft of a living Man's body by a Houseless Elf. Slowly Aragorn gained the ability to delve into all his memories of his dealings with the Sorcerer, and wondered if he would indeed face him again. He had threatened to again search out the Heir of Isildur. It was no idle threat. His grandfather, his father, his father's sister and child—all died at Ahando's will. He knew now in his gut that Elrond's warnings that he hide his identity from all strangers were wise and necessary. With some amusement amidst the grimness, he thought he would need yet another name. This time it would be one he chose for himself.

He read about Númenor in the days of its glory and remembered the glint of white sails on the edge of the far horizon of the sea that he had seen in the Pathways. He hungered to see the sea where once his forefathers were great mariners and travelers, and wondered if Númenoreans carried shipcraft in their blood. He read legends of Harad and other faraway lands in the East where the knowledge of the Valar had never come.

Always the memory of the Hall of Tapestries remained strong within him, and he searched the books of lore for any tie of what he had seen to the past, present or future.

At the end of every night, when only the stars and the candles lit the library, Aragorn pulled down the same old volume from the shelves: _The Lay of Leithian_.

_As Beren looked into her eyes_

_Within the shadows of her hair,_

_The trembling starlight of the skies_

_He saw there mirrored shimmering._

_Tinúviel the elven-fair,_

_Immortal maiden elven-wise,_

_About him cast her shadowy hair_

_And arms like silver glimmering._

As he chanted the verses softly to himself, always he saw the face of Arwen Undómiel in his mind's eye, and wondered if she had indeed spoken to him through the golden mirror, or if her voice had been only a phantom of his own desire.

A good month passed before he felt himself truly ready to return to the Pathways, and then at last he sought out Elrond in the healer's wing. He knocked on the door and waited till Elrond's voice bade him, "Come in."

Elrond was sitting at his vast worktable, writing in a book. His eyes grave, he rose from his chair. "You have recovered well, Aragorn."

Aragorn knew from one look at his foster father's face, and from the use of his given name, that they were not to speak of the hard words between them at the shore of the great sea. _It is as well, for what more could be said?_ "I am ready for my training now, Master Elrond."

From that day on he spent his mornings at Elrond's side, and in the afternoons went to the practice field to regain his warrior's strength and skill. But they did not again enter that strange land where men walked in their own dreams. Instead he helped Elrond gather herbs and prepare medicines, much as he had as a boy, and treat the small injuries that happened each day to the dwellers in the Valley, for even Elves sprain their ankles, cut their fingers and suffer burns in a fire. At first he wondered when the real work would begin, but then he began to see that the sharpening of his awareness carried over into the skill of healing. When he touched a knee bruised in a fall, he sensed the hurt in the flesh and the distress of the Elf-woman who had slipped on the stairs. Closing his eyes, he grasped her injured knee in both hands and held firmly while concentrating on the feel of the flesh. After a time the Elf-woman sighed and seemed to relax.

"Sleep now," Aragorn said. But already her eyes had closed.

He stood up and looked at Elrond. "Was that—" he hardly knew what to call it.

"Yes," Elrond nodded. "Your touch has hastened the healing of her hurt. Now time will do the rest."

They walked together in the garden. "With time and practice," Elrond said, "you will learn how to harness and wield the power to its greatest extent."

"But when I healed Rodnor, I entered great shock and horror—a black thing—"

Elrond held up his hand. "Say no more. When you treat such wounds of the Enemy, where the dark arts are strong, you must enter into the Pathways with your very heart. You did so, but you did not yet know how to walk the way of your own power. He tried to overwhelm you and nearly succeeded—but in the end, you won."

Aragorn shuddered at the dark memory. "Barely."

"You will grow stronger. With the healing of small wounds and hurts you will learn to focus your power and grow in its use. You will learn how to fully unlock the power of _athelas._ "

Silent, Aragorn pondered his words. _Will I also learn how to walk the Paths of the Dead?_ Elrond had often spoken of destiny and hope, but Aragorn wondered if his great destiny was to find a glorious death in the war against the Enemy. _So be it! Many men have achieved much less._

"If I live long enough," he said, but Elrond did not answer.

~oOo~

Gilraen watched over her son's convalescence with vigilance. Day by day his appetite grew and he began to put flesh back on his bones. She cherished being able to care for him again, even for so terrible a reason. She realized yet again how lonely she had been in Rivendell since he had left.

"Almost I am truly Estel again," he said, laughing, as he dined with her one evening. But still the dark look came into his face from time to time, and he still cried out in his dreams, and Gilraen knew he brooded on the fate of the warriors, his friends, on the hunt, and Rodnor and Daeron still lost who knew where. She, too, brooded, and thought often of Daeron and Rodnor, who had risked, and maybe lost, their lives to save her son. Aragorn's twenty-third birthday passed on March 1, but they had no spirits for more than a toast over their food. "I cannot celebrate while my friends are in danger, or maybe worse," Aragorn said. "And the Elves have little interest in the yearly celebrations of Men." But she kissed him warmly, and remembered the joy of having a baby at her breast. She thought often of the other baby, the girl-child who had died in her womb, but she did not speak of it. The memory of the Sorcerer's darkness was still too near for her son.

On a bright day that spoke of the coming spring, she was sitting by the hearth, mending, while Aragorn lounged on a bench at the window, reading a small book that he had fetched from his pack. "My great-grandmother Saelind gave me this book," he said. "There are many wonderful poems here. One she pointed out to me especially; it ends ' _They also serve who only stand and wait.'_ I think I am beginning to have a glimmer of what that means."

Putting aside her cloth and needle, she looked up at him. "I remember Saelind speaking of that poem when I knew her in Thurnost. She said the poet spoke of the long years of the Dúnedain living in the shadows, unsung and unacknowledged. But when I hear it, I think of the labor of women—those who wait for their men to return, and sometimes they do not. But we too have a task."

" 'They also serve,' " Aragorn murmured. "It is well said."

A howling scream broke the peace of Elrond's House.

Frighted like a startled cat, Gilraen leaped up, her hand clutched to her breast. Aragorn sat up with a jolt and rose to his feet. "What devilry is this? My sword—"

The light patter of hurrying Elven feet sounded in the hallway, and a maid burst through the door without knocking. "The Master calls for you. Come quick! No, Lord Dúnadan, you do not need your weapon."

They followed her through the House to the wing where Elrond treated those who came to him for healing, but the Master himself met them in the corridor outside the rooms. Distress clouded his face.

"Rodnor and Daeron have been found at last," he said. "Halbarad brought them here. I need your help, both of you."

"Are they wounded?" Aragorn cried. "Why were we not told before?"

"No, no, not wounded," Elrond answered. "I was just going to send you a message to come to them when Rodnor made it unnecessary. Orcs drove them over the pass and they spent the winter east of the mountains, sheltering with the woodmen. Daeron is quite fit, not harmed at all beyond weariness. But Rodnor is in a bad way. He is terrified—" Elrond stopped, seemingly at a loss for words, his face turned toward the room within, as if listening.

"My healing was not complete," Aragorn said. "The Sorcerer haunts him still."

"That I do not know. I cannot even tell—because it is me he fears."

"You, Master Elrond!" Gilraen exclaimed, astonished. "Why?"

Elrond held out his hands to both of them. "He seems to be afraid of all Elves, but me especially. Halbarad could hardly get him to enter the Valley, only on command did he come. You must help me to reach him, both of you."

"Of course," Gilraen said. "What must we do?"

"Go in together. Daeron is there, alone with him for now. Talk to him. Find out what he fears."

"Where is Halbarad?" Aragorn asked.

"Eating and resting, as I commanded," Elrond said.

"Then I will see him later. Come, mother," Aragorn said, and took her arm.

Inside the room Rodnor crouched in a corner, both arms wrapped around his head. He moaned softly, rocking back and forth on his heels. Daeron stood over him, seemingly helpless. So distressed was she over Rodnor's sorry state, Gilraen gave scarce a thought to the scarred man who once was her betrothed. She knelt down before the boy and coaxed his hands into hers. "My dear," she said, "you are quite safe here. Have no fear."

"The king," moaned Rodnor. "The dead king."

"Rodnor, look at me!" Aragorn spoke in a voice of authority that Gilraen had never heard from him before. He even looked somehow bigger.

Blue-grey eyes peered out from Rodnor's tangle of ginger hair. "Aragorn," he whispered. "Help me."

"Stand up, Rodnor, and give me your hand." Aragorn held out his hand and raised the boy to his feet. "Now tell me, who is this king you speak of?"

"I saw him in the sparkling cave, all covered with blood. Then he walked before me here, into the room. The bright eyes! An Elvish ghost…." He shuddered.

Aragorn took hold of his wrists, closing his eyes, and his face grew remote with effort, until, at last, Rodnor cried out sharply. "The king! Do you see him?"

Aragorn released the boy's hands. His face was pale and drawn. "I see what has happened. Mother, stay here with Rodnor while I speak to Elrond."

"Come, Rodnor, sit here by the hearth." She raised her face to Daeron's, conscious of the blush she could feel suffusing her cheeks. "Help me."

"Listen to the lady," Daeron said in his gruff voice. "Come now, boy."

Gilraen sat beside Rodnor on the bench by the hearth, and stroked his face with a gentle hand. "There now, my dear, there now."

Daeron retreated across the room. Gilraen tried not to think of him standing there, watching her, and gave all her attention to the boy who shivered before her. It seemed an eternity before Aragorn came back. He sat on Rodnor's other side, took the boy's two hands in his and gazed into his eyes. "Rodnor, you are safe here, I swear it. The one you fear is no dead king, but my beloved foster father. Trust me, and let us help you. Close your eyes now, and breathe deep. I will protect you, and my father will help me."

The boy's eyes closed, and Aragorn whispered words over their grasped hands. Gilraen watched his intent face, amazed at what she saw. She did not hear Elrond's footsteps as he approached but saw only his two hands close over Aragorn's, wrapped around Rodnor's. Utter silence filled the room, but for their slow, deep breathing. Rodnor's face relaxed into peace, and he slumped forward in a profound sleep. Elrond released his hands, and Aragorn and Daeron together lifted Rodnor to the waiting bed.

"He will sleep well now," Elrond said. "The attendant will watch over him."

"But one of us should be here when he wakes," Gilraen said.

"I can stay," Daeron said.

Elrond shook his head. "No, you need rest yourself to recover from your months away."

"I will stay with Rodnor," Gilraen said. "You are all three weary now." She saw with motherly alarm the pallor of her son's face.

"True," Elrond smiled. "It was a trial unusual even for me."

"What happened?" asked Daeron in his harsh voice.

Aragorn sighed. "Apparently Elrond bears a great resemblance to his grandfather, Dior, Thingol's Heir and Lúthien's son, who died at the hands of Celegorm in Doriath three Ages ago. Rodnor recognized him from the dreams of terror the Sorcerer had inflicted on him."

"Yes," Elrond said, "And only through Aragorn was I able to reach him. Your son has a remarkable power, Gilraen."

"He does," Daeron said. "It is what saved me."

Gilraen turned to face him. "And you saved him, and all of us, Daeron son of Galion. We, and I especially, owe you more than I can say. Thank you."

"It was only my duty," Daeron said. Emotion flickered across his reddened face, and he quickly turned his one good eye away. "As a Ranger owes to his lord."

Aragorn put out his hand and grasped Daeron's forearm in a soldier's greeting. "Come with me now, we'll find you some food and rest."

As the men left Gilraen heard Rodnor stirring. Kneeling at his bedside, she smiled down on the motherless boy. His blue eyes opened. "Lady Gilraen," he said weakly.

"I am here," she said. And she knew then what she wanted to do.


	32. Appendix: From the Red Book of Westmarch

In the days of Argeleb son of Malvegil, since no descendants of Isildur remained in the other kingdoms, the kings of Arthedain again claimed the lordship of all Arnor. The claim was resisted by Rhudaur. There the Dúnedain were few, and power had been seized by an evil lord of the Hillmen, who was in secret league with Angmar. Argeleb therefore fortified the Weather Hills; but he was slain in battle with Rhudaur and Angmar.

In later years it was revealed that the evil lord of the Hillmen was none other than the sorcerer of Rhudaur, who had possessed the body of a chief of the Hillmen. He was a sorcerer of great power, the chief servant of the Witch-King, and led the forces of the enemy in the assault on the Weather Hills when Argeleb was slain.

When Angmar was at last vanquished by the forces of Gondor and all who remained in the North of the Dúnedain and the Elves of the Grey Havens and Imladris, the sorcerer too vanished from the North. But while it was known that he was not a Ringwraith, the Wise did not know of what kind he truly was, and believed, wrongly as they came to see, that the sorcerer had perished in the body of the Hillmen's lord. But this proved not to be so, and when Sauron rose again, and Mount Doom burst into flame, he sent the sorcerer from Dol Guldur, where he had hidden in the intervening years, back to the North. For the death of Smaug, as Mithrandir had foreseen, was a terrible blow to Sauron's plans, and he sought to regain a base from which to assault Imladris and to continue his search for the Heir of Isildur, if any remained upon the earth.

In this the sorcerer was in part successful. Through evil magic he lured the chieftains Arador and Arathorn II to their deaths, and would have brought about the death of Aragorn II as well, if Elrond had not protected him in Imladris. But the Rangers were aware when the sorcerer returned, and they rode against him in company with the sons of Elrond and Lord Glorfindel. With the aid of Gandalf the Grey his lair was cleansed of all Orcs and evil Men.

Then it was revealed that the sorcerer was none other than Moredhel, the cruel servant of Celegorm who had left the sons of Dior to starve in the woods. This Elf was already far down the road to evil when he met his death at the hands of Maedhros son of Fëanor. For Maedhros sought to find the boys, but when he could not, he took his revenge upon Moredhel. Thus he lost his Elven body and became a lost spirit, refusing the call of Mandos. As the Wise later came to know, he took over the body of another, forcing out the rightful spirit into death. It is not known how many bodies he inhabited over the Ages. But at last he took refuge in the body of a wolf, and for many years the Ettenmoors were ravaged by these beasts. The danger was not ended until the days of Elessar.


	33. The Heir of Elendil

His eyes blissfully closed, Halbarad basked in an huge copper tub full of steaming hot water. The air was moist and fragrant with lavendar; a plump pile of soft towels awaited him on a bench. Indulging in the pleasures of the moment, he put aside the dark memories that hung at the edge of his consciousness.

"How do you like Rivendell?" said a voice he knew well.

"Aragorn!" He bolted upright, sloshing the steamy water onto the floor.

"Stay where you are," said his friend, laughing as he moved aside the towels and sat down on the bench. "You look much too happy to move."

With a sigh Halbarad lay back. "Too true. Ah Aragorn, you look well!"

"And you don't," he laughed, "but it's nothing your bath, a hair cut and a good sleep won't cure, I guess."

"And a very large meal," Halbarad said, grinning.

"I've already ordered a meal to be brought to us, in the wing where my mother and I live. You'll stay there with us while you're here. Everything is ready, and I've brought you some of my clothes. We are much of the same height and weight, so they should fit you well."

Halbarad eyed the shirt of delicate white linen and over-tunic of light blue wool, worked with silver at hem and throat, that Aragorn wore. They were finer than anything Halbarad had ever owned. "Am I also to look like an Elven princeling?"

Surprise darkened Aragorn's face, then he laughed. "I suppose I do look like I have reverted to my former self."

"Hand me a towel," Halbarad said as he rose from the water. As he dried himself, he cast an eye now and then at Aragorn, who had turned away. "Where are these clothes of yours?"

"I've left them right here. I'll wait for you outside, all right?"

Halbarad wondered if he had offended his friend, and made up his mind to apologize. He quickly dressed in silky dark green: a tunic and trousers with a pattern of leaves wrought the length of the sleeves and legs. _Not too ornate_ , he thought with some relief as he pulled on soft leather shoes. Before he fastened his belt, he slid over it the loop of his small pouch. Inside was a treasure that must be returned to its owner.

Aragorn was standing at the window, his arm crossed behind his back, but he turned as Halbarad emerged from the steamy bathroom. "It suits you well, my friend."

"And you also, despite my jest," Halbarad said. "I did not mean to offend you."

"No offense taken, Halbarad," Aragorn said with that smile of rare incandescence that so transformed his usually stern face. "I had just not thought of it that way, and it brought to mind that I still am a stranger to my own people."

"No, you are wrong about that. Don't you know how you have risen in the esteem of the Rangers? There is no man who wouldn't swear you allegiance now. My father means to step down as acting chieftain."

But Aragorn shook his head. "I think he will remain so for many years. No, Halbarad," and he raised his hand in a gesture of denial, "it's not that I judge myself unworthy, although I know I am very raw indeed—it's that something tells me, foresight perhaps, I don't know, that I will not remain in Eriador for much longer. Far places, and ships, many ships, haunt my mind. Many strange things happened to me while I was—what shall I say?—away."

_Away is a good word for it,_ Halbarad thought, remembering those days of terror while Aragorn had seemed to slip further from the world with every hour. "Well, then, if it's your command that he remain acting chieftain, he will serve as you wish. But I hope you will not in fact leave us just when we have started to get used to you. I, for one, always knew you would succeed. Do you remember when you first came to Thurnost and our great-grandmother had me swear as king's man?"

"Of course I remember," Aragorn murmured. "It was yet another thing that showed how far I was from everyone's expectations and hopes of me. But come, my friend, let's go to our meal where we can talk in greater comfort."

He led the way through a maze of hallways and stairs and Halbarad followed, marveling at the beauty and elegance of Elrond's House. Yet it was an easy splendor, he noted—windows looked out upon gardens, the air was fresh and fragrant, everywhere there were cushioned nooks where a guest could rest at will. At last they came to a far wing looking out over the river that tumbled and foamed as it rushed from the Misty Mountains to the east. Aragorn showed Halbarad into the same large, comfortable room that he remembered from his earlier, very brief visit to Rivendell, when he and his father had spoken to Gilraen.

"Is your mother here?" he asked, reluctant to sit at the heavily laden table before the mistress of the house was present.

But Aragorn shook his head. "Sit and eat! She is with Rodnor. Elrond and I released him from what remained of the sorcerer's taint, but Elrond thought it best for one of us to sit with him till he wakes."

"By 'one of us,' you mean us mere mortals," Halbarad said as he took his seat.

"If you insist."

Halbarad could hardly tear his eyes from the roast chicken, golden wine, crusty bread, green salads, and berry tarts that lay before him, but he forced himself to speak again and refrain from grabbing. "I know it doesn't seem so to you, having grown up among them, but I can understand why Rodnor was frightened of the Elves. They can be awe-inspiring in a rather overwhelming way. I still shiver when I remember seeing Elrond for the first time, riding up the hill after the falcons. If I had not been so desperate about you, I might well have been more cautious about him."

"Why?" Aragorn asked with surprise.

"It is not often that we _mere mortals_ see legends springing from the earth." Halbarad shrugged. "I don't expect you to understand."

"Halbarad, eat. Your eyes are popping out of your head," Aragorn laughed. "I suppose you aren't awed by Rivendell food."

"By no means." Halbarad helped himself and ate in silence as he took the edge off his hunger. After devouring a large cut of succulent chicken and mopping up the rich juices with a fistful of bread, he sat back and sighed deeply. "Now tell me, how is it with Rodnor? Will he be all right now?"

Aragorn was eating too, but with less eagerness and some amusement. "Elrond thinks so. It was more the after-effect of the horror he endured, rather than any dark arts remaining within him. He believed that Elrond was Dior."

"Dior?"

"Yes, the son of Beren and Lúthien. We discovered that the sorcerer was among the Elves who killed him in Menegroth, and that he also killed the princes Elured and Elurin, Elrond's uncles."

Halbarad gasped and felt a shiver of shock run up his spine. "Legends out of the past, what did I say?

"Yes, you are right. But so are we legends out of the past, Halbarad, we Dúnedain. We are their kin, do not forget."

"I never will now, certainly," Halbarad said. "And look, I have something of yours. I took good care of it."

He drew out of his pouch the treasure that he had hidden there: the golden Ring of Barahir dangling from its chain, its green gems winking in the afternoon light.

"Ah!" Aragorn took it from him and fastened it around his neck. "Thank you. It is a precious thing in beauty and legend. How did it come to be with you?"

"Daeron insisted I take it as soon as I found them, him and Rodnor, not two weeks ago now. He still feels the disgrace of his exile."

"He should not," Aragorn said. "That will be made very clear to all."

"So says my father too. He is hoping that you will come with us when we return to Thurnost, Daeron, Rodnor and I, and all will be made right."

"I don't know if I can. Elrond has yet to release me from my apprenticeship. But I freely admit that I am eager to be gone."

"From this heavenly place? Why?"

Aragorn's face became serious. "It's not my home any more. I know that now." Halbarad saw thoughtfulness and a certain sad acceptance in his eyes. "I left here nearly three years ago, uncertain of myself and my path, bitter and wishing that I could remain to be near her that I loved. But I know now that whether I will succeed or fail, I have to go out to meet my destiny."

"Have you determined, then, to put the Lady Arwen out of your mind?" Halbarad felt a curious mix of hope and disappointment that Aragorn would abandon his love for the daughter of Elrond.

"By no means," Aragorn said. "But I have other tasks to do first. Some day I will meet her again."

"And then?"

"I don't know. It depends on her, doesn't it?"

"So it does," Halbarad said. "Listen, Aragorn, I feel I must tell you something. I wasn't going to mention it, because my father bade me be silent, but I owe it to the confidence you have in me."

Aragorn's keen eyes were fixed on his face. "Don't keep me waiting."

"My father wants you to marry—soon."

Astonishment suffused Aragorn's face before anger darkened it. "He presumes much," he said in a curt and tense voice.

"That's not how he sees it. He says that the Dúnedain must know that the Heirs of Isildur will continue, and he has a point. It's our hope—you are our Estel too, you know. He's going to bring the matter before the captains' council and urge an early marriage."

"I will refuse," Aragorn said. His face had closed into a hard mask of sheer determination—a will as hard as dragon scales, Halbarad knew. "No one can dictate this choice to me."

"I will support you in that," Halbarad said. "My loose tongue will at least give you the opportunity to prepare yourself for this. It might be best if you find a way to be more diplomatic about your refusal. There will be hopeful fathers with even more hopeful daughters. Try to have your way while keeping as much good will as possible among the Rangers."

Aragorn stared at him for a silent moment, then nodded. "It's sound advice. I will try to follow it. Now, can we talk about something else?"

"Of course."

"Elrond's calling a war council, so to speak, tomorrow at mid-day. Elladan and Elrohir have just returned from the wild as well."

"Ah," said Halbarad. "I'm glad it's tomorrow."

"Yes, you may loll to your heart's content for today. And I with you, if I may. I must say Rodnor's healing drained me."

Looking again carefully at Aragorn, Halbarad saw that indeed a certain pallor lurked in his face. "It will be my pleasure."

~oOo~

The next day, when the mid-day bell ring, Halbarad and Aragorn went to a chamber near the Hall of Fire where Elrond's war council was to be held. Chairs were drawn up to a round table where a large map of Eriador lay. Elrond and his sons, Elladan and Elrohir, were already there with Daeron and Rodnor, and Erestor also was present. Halbarad's eyes went at once to Rodnor, who stood quietly and unobstrusively behind his elders. His calm was remarkable, considering how troubled he had been on entering the valley. Halbarad embraced him. "You are well?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, very. Lady Gilraen had me rest and fed me until I am about to pop."

Halbarad chuckled and slapped him on the back. "Good!"

"And I have apologized to Master Elrond," Rodnor said in a shame-faced voice.

"And I, for my part," Elrond interjected, "told him there was no need for that. The enemy that we face has deep arts indeed, as we will discuss here, and no blame is attached to any who suffer from it. Let's consider our position, shall we?"

Aragorn had sat at the table opposite to Elrond and was examining the map before them; Halbarad stood behind him. Elladan and Elrohir had placed markers in various spots in the Ettenmoors, clustered most thickly to the east of Wolf's Head at the pass to the old kingdom of Angmar.

"Here is where the enemy was last seen," Elladan said, pointing with his long finger. "But that was last January, over two months now, before the heavy snows set in. Still, we know they must be there, and all the more securely for their secrecy. And here"—he indicated a marker south of the others—"is where Halbarad and Aragorn found Rodnor and Daeron, and where Beleg and Hawk died."

"Yes, that's the place, as near as I can tell," Aragorn said. "We were just north of the Hoarwell. Did you find the place in your scouting? We had to leave our comrades without burial, and I would greatly like to make that right."

"The snow has yet made that impossible," said Elrohir. "But we will find it. We must, not only for the sake of their memory, but to continue the hunt for Ahando's wolves. That was the last place they were seen."

Daeron nodded. "Yes, I killed the wolf that had slain Hawk. But the carcass disappeared. It was no ordinary beast."

"There, for all we know, Ahando's spirit may still linger," said Elrond. "It is a perilous place, and must be approached with great caution. He will be looking for another body to steal, if he has not found one already."

"We must begin again soon, now that spring has come," Elladan said.

"My father is certain that Wolf's Head can no longer be trusted," Halbarad said. "We have to assume the secret has been betrayed through Beleg."

"So we think too," said Elladan. "We need to find another stronghold, perhaps at the Ranger station in the Weather Hills. It will be a long hunt."

"I am now fit and can join you, with Elrond's leave," said Aragorn.

"No," Elrond shook his head. "You must stay entirely away from there.  It's you he wants above all. My greatest fear is that he will escape and get news of you to his foul master. While he remains bodiless, at least we do not have that to fear. He is trapped where he is."

"Then am I to stay safely in Rivendell while my friends are in danger?"

"For the present," said Elrond firmly. "There are others who can fight this battle. In fact," and his face lit with a sudden, almost mischievous smile, "I have an idea to consult with Gandalf the Grey on the matter. Unfortunately, it may take some time to find him. When I left Rivendell last fall, it was in part to take council with him. Now he has wandered off again, as is his wont."

"Gandalf! An excellent idea," Halbarad said. "What help do you think he can give us?"

"He himself has great power against the Unseen. But I am thinking also of his companions. It seems to me that the best warriors to send against this thief of the bodies of Elves and Men are—Dwarves."

Erestor gave a little shout of laughter. "An inspired idea, Master Elrond. No Elf would choose the body of a Dwarf!"

"Would the Dwarves help us?" Aragorn asked.

"I think so," said Elrond. "They have as much reason as we to hate and fear the presence of the enemy in the mountains. And this move to refound a stronghold in the North, I believe, is Sauron's answer to the loss of Smaug at the Lonely Mountain when Thorin took back the Dwarf kingdom. I will send messengers to look for Gandalf. He will have the greatest means of persuasion."

"If that can be done, the Rangers will surely welcome the help," said Halbarad.

"Meanwhile, we must guard the area, and not expect to conquer it, unless the Orcs make themselves known," said Elrond. "But they may not do so while Ahando remains bodiless. That is our great chance. Perhaps by the autumn we will have a troop of Dwarves to send on the hunt."

When the council broke up, Aragorn beckoned at Halbarad to remain. "For this concerns you too," he said as he turned to his foster father. "Elrond, how long do you expect me to remain here?"

Elrond looked troubled. "I do not know. For the time being, there is still work to be done on your training. When that is finished, I will decide what to do next."

"Let's hope it's by the autumn," Halbarad said. "My father is calling a meeting of the captains and Aragorn should be there if he can."

"Perhaps," Elrond said. "But he may have other tasks."

"Yes," said Aragorn slowly. "Master Elrond, if you feel the need of sequestering me in a safe place far from Ahando's reach, I ask that you send me to Círdan to learn to sail a ship."

"Sail a ship!" cried Halbarad, thoroughly astonished. "What use is that to the Rangers of the North?"

But Elrond was smiling. "Many things may happen that you do not expect, Halbarad. And perhaps you, too, should go to Círdan with Aragorn." He bowed to them and took his leave.

"Is this the blood of the mariners of Númenor calling to you, my friend?" Halbarad said.

"It may be," Aragorn answered. "It is something I saw in my dreams, and it keeps coming to me: black ships on a wide river." His grey eyes seemed to be seeing something that was not there. "And I believe that Elrond is right that you should come with me."

"I am the king's man," Halbarad said.

~oOo~

Hallor, it turned out, was not to be deterred lightly from his wish that the Chieftain come soon to the Angle. Aragorn had to acknowledge the acting chieftain's canny knowledge of his people when, at the height of summer, long after Daeron, Rodnor and Halbarad had left the Valley, Dírhael and Ivorwen came again to visit their daughter and grandson. Who better to deliver the message of the wished-for early marriage than Dírhael, his own grandfather?

He kept silent on the matter, waiting for his grandfather to choose the moment to speak. But he was surprised when, one evening, when the dinner table was cleared of everything but the ewers of fragrant wine and a bowl of walnuts, his mother cleared her throat.

"I have something to tell all of you," she said.

Her face was grave and yet happy at the same time. Aragorn waited.

"I have decided to return to Thurnost," she said.

"Wonderful news, daughter!" Dírhael cried.

"Why have you come to this decision?" Aragorn asked. She had said nothing of it.

"Because my people are there. Because I am the wife of Arathorn and the mother of Aragorn. In truth, for many reasons. I know it will be a harder life, but it's time to leave Rivendell. My job here is done. And I will ask Rodnor to become my foster son."

Pleased, Aragorn smiled. "That is a very good idea. Does he know?"

"Not yet," Gilraen said. "I wanted to consider the idea of returning to Thurnost for a while. I cannot foster him if I am not there. But my mind is now made up."

Aragorn knew that his mother's will was as strong as his own when she had determined her course. "Well then, I am glad. I will escort you to Thurnost myself, when Elrond gives me leave."

"There will be much rejoicing!" cried Dírhael. "We will have games, bonfires and a proper welcoming."

"And none will be happier than we," Ivorwen said. "I never wanted to influence your choice, Gilraen, but I have missed you. Iorlas will be greatly pleased that his children have an aunt."

"Well!" said Dírhael. "I too have news of concern to our family. I have a message from Hallor and the captains, such of them as were lately gathered in Thurnost."

Aragorn turned his full attention to his grandfather. "Yes?"

"Yes, indeed. It's simple enough. They wish an early marriage for you."

Aragorn assumed a mild surprise, his hand lightly grasping the rim of the elegant goblet before him. "And why is that?"

"Need I spell it out?" Dírhael said. "The male descent stops with you. The only others in the House of Isildur are Hallor himself and Halbarad, and they only through Argonui's daughter. We need more sons in the Chieftain's line. Therefore, you will marry."

"No, I will not," Aragorn said quietly.

"Not immediately," Dírhael agreed. "But a betrothal must be made, and you can marry at a time proper to the bride's age."

Aragorn could hear the rustle of silken skirts as his mother stirred in her seat. Ivorwen did not stir or speak; she had doubtless already known of this message. He waited for his grandfather to continue.

"There are several suitable young women," Dírhael said. "You will meet them and make your choice, but the captains want a betrothal by next spring."

Aragorn remained silent as he raised his goblet of wine to his lips and drank.

"One you know already," Dírhael persevered. "Lalaith, my son's daughter and your cousin, is still a child, so the wedding would be postponed some years. But it would be a sound choice. There is also Túrin's daughter, who is eighteen now and lives in Sarn Ford. She is most charming and skilled in all that's necessary for a woman. The betrothal would then be shorter, which has its own merit."

At the mention of Lalaith Aragorn made a sharp movement in his chair and directed a surprised look at his grandfather. Gilraen lowered her head and groaned.

Dírhael looked at her sharply. "Did you speak, daughter?"

"No, father," she said meekly.

"Good." He looked back at Aragorn. "You cannot question the wisdom of this decision, grandson. You know as well as any man among us our great need and your duty."

"Yes indeed," said Aragorn softly.

"Of course," Dírhael continued, "if you have a preference for another, any woman of Dúnedain blood that you choose would be agreeable to the captains. The captains will expect you to act on this as soon as you can return to Thurnost. That will give you time to adjust your thoughts and think about your wishes in a wife." He stood up. "Perhaps the womenfolk will aid you in that," he said with a quirk of his mouth as he left the room.

Utter silence descended on the chamber, where candlelight cast shadows of gold along the walls.

"This will not happen," Aragorn said simply. "You have no need to trouble yourselves."

"Oh, Estel," Gilraen said, in a tone that he knew as one of great distress. "Although you may not like it, the captains have good reasons for this. Please think about it."

Ivorwen, who had remained silent throughout Dírhael's speech, stirred in her chair at last. "They are wrong," she said firmly. "There is only one woman that Aragorn may marry, and if he does not wed her, the Heirs of Isildur will come to an end. But she is not a woman of the Dúnedain."

"So you know then," Aragorn said. "I thought you probably did, with your Sight."

"It needs no Sight to know," Ivorwen said. "You carry your love in your eyes. Dírhael knows too, but he is has always been one to put duty before feelings. Isn't that so often true of our people? But you are fortunate."

"Oh, mother," Gilraen groaned.

Aragorn stared at his grandmother. "That's the last word I would use."

"Gilraen, leave us for the moment," Ivorwen said. "I wish to speak to my grandson alone."

"Mother, please do not—"

But Ivorwen cut her off. "I will follow my own judgment in this matter, my child."

Gilraen left the room in a brisk flourish of discontent.

"Come with me, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord of the Dúnedain," Ivorwen said. "Let's go out and see the stars."

For a while they stood in silence, gazing out at the wide, black sky bejeweled with stars of molten silver. Aragorn felt a strange peacefulness, as if he had finally reached a decision that had long eluded him. He knew, somehow, that his grandmother understood this.

"Do you remember the day we first met?" she said at last.

"Vividly," he said. "That day is engraved on my memory forever."

"I told you then about the dream I had at your birth about a green stone of great beauty and clarity. Since then I have Seen it again, and I Saw it in the hands of Arwen Undómiel."

Aragorn's heart leaped within him. "How so?"

But she shook her head. "That I do not know. I don't know what the stone is, or where it comes from. Nor do I know the feelings of the lady or why she should have this stone. But it and she and you are bound together, perhaps in a way that will surprise all of us. It may not be what you hope for."

She fell silent again, as if she were listening to a faraway voice. Then she turned to him and took his face between her workworn hands. "You are fortunate, grandson, because your duty and your love are the same. You will marry Arwen Undómiel or no one."

For an intense moment she gazed into his face and Aragorn saw the truth of her Sight in her large mild eyes. She at last released him and lowered her hands to her side.

"That I know," he said quietly. "But it is likely to be no one, I believe. Indeed, the Heirs of Isildur may end with me. It would be a terrible thing, but I cannot do otherwise."

He looked at the brilliant stars above and thought of Arwen: her laughter, her wisdom, her loveliness. In those first, brief days when he had believed himself loved, he knew now that he had thought only of himself and his own happiness. He had not understood the willfulness of the demands he was making of her.  

"I cannot stop thinking of her," he said. "But though I dream of marriage, I can never ask it. All I want to be near her some times, if she would only let me. Last I saw her, she told me to never come near her again. But sometimes," he whispered, "I wonder if some day she may change her mind. And that seems almost worse to me, because of the choice she would have to make."

Ivorwen's soft eyes were fixed on his face. "What will you do?"

Gratefully Aragorn smiled at her. "My duty. I will follow the path that is before me and go to Círdan. I will put Narsil again in Elrond's hands, and come back to reclaim it when I have earned it. And some day I will see Arwen again and fate will bring what it may. I have at last learned to wait."

And hanging low over the horizon he saw the bright light of Gil-Estel, the Star of Hope, blazing out like a beacon.

_For nearly thirty years Aragorn laboured in the cause against Sauron; and he became a friend of Gandalf the Wise, from whom he gained much wisdom. With him he made many perilous journeys, but as the years wore on he went more often alone. His ways were hard and long, and he became somewhat grim to look upon, unless he chanced to smile; and yet he seemed to Men worthy of honour, as a king that is in exile, when he did not hide his true shape. For he went in many guises, and won renown under many names. He rode in the host of the Rohirrim, and fought for the Lord of Gondor by land and by sea; and then in the hour of victory he passed out of the knowledge of Men of the West, and went alone far into the East and deep into the South, exploring the hearts of Men, both evil and good, and uncovering the plots and devices of the servants of Sauron._

_Thus he became at last the most hardy of living Men, skilled in their crafts and lore, and was yet more than they; for he was elven-wise, and there was a light in his eyes that when they were kindled few could endure. His face was sad and stern because of the doom that was laid on him, and yet hope dwelt ever in the depths of his heart, from which mirth would arise at times like a spring from the rock._


	34. Steadfast

To Halbarad's critical eye, Aragorn's pallor and weary dark eyes gave away how much the healing of Rodnor had cost him. Even after sleeping most of the day while the others hunted for food and otherwise prepared to depart, Aragorn looked as if he had just come from a fierce battle. _And so he has_ , Halbarad thought, _with a foe all the stronger for being unseen._

He took Daeron aside. "From here, how far to Rivendell?"

Daeron pointed south to a spur of rock thrusting westward from the southward-marching line of the Misty Mountains. "There's a Ranger pass around those peaks. It's a hard road but the best of poor choices. If we turn west, to the lower ground, we will enter Troll country, and risk coming closer to the forces of the sorcerer, whatever and wherever they might be."

"And this pass? What do you know of it?"

"We will have to climb through rough country to reach it. I last took that road coming from the south, after crossing the mountains over the High Pass, returning from the vales of Anduin. Once you are over the ridge, it is as easy a way as you will find anywhere in these parts, till you come to the steep ravines around Rivendell. With luck, we can make it in ten days."

"Then we will take the climb," Halbarad said. "We must get to Rivendell with all speed. Even if Elrond hasn't yet returned, our only hope lies there. The healing has cost Aragorn more than he will say, I know it."

Daeron nodded. "You and I, we are the most fit, I guess. The boy, though brave, is still shaken from his ordeal, and the death of his grandfather. But the way that I know has shelters in the ruins of old crofters' huts where we may rest if we must. There are no Orcs, or weren't last I went that way."

"Who knows now?" Halbarad clasped Daeron's shoulder. "You will take the lead, and I'll watch the rear."

~oOo~

That night, they camped at a half-ruined, grass-covered hut, a remnant of the hillfolk who had once dwelt in this land, built into a hill near a fresh spring. The doorway had collapsed, but deeper within was a dry space sheltered from the wind that had begun to blow from the east.

Halbarad crouched beside Aragorn where he sat with his head bowed to his knees. "I know you are in trouble. Don't deny it."

Aragorn's feeble smile would have fooled no one. "I will not deny it. But I had hoped to hide it better."

"You have stumbled and would have fallen several times today, if I had not been there, and the ground was not rough. I don't trust you to keep your feet. You must take more rest. We can stay here a while."

Aragorn shook his head. "I can't spare the time, Halbarad," he said softly.

"What do you mean?"

Aragorn closed his haunted eyes. "Grey mist—it gets deeper. It will swallow me if I do not get to Elrond."

"You don't make any sense," Halbarad said sharply. "Explain yourself, and tell me how I can help you."

"You must begin to understand, Halbarad," Aragorn muttered. "This is no weariness that sleep will cure. What it is I can only guess, and which guess is right, I do not know. It could be that I exceeded the limits of my power when I healed Rodnor, and now I pay the price. Elrond did warn me. Or it could be that the sorcerer's knife scratch to my face had some effect after all. But what I fear most is that his power entered me through Rodnor."

"And what gives you reason to think that?"

"I see another time, another world. _His_ time, _his_ world. Rhudaur and the fall of the Dúnedain. And even"—his voice sunk to a whisper—"the Elder Days."

Fear squeezed Halbarad's heart. "But we left his _fëa_ far behind, across the river, many miles from here."

"Haven't I explained it to you already?" Aragorn snapped. "He was hundreds of miles from Beleg when he used him to kill my father and grandfather. His power travels in the blood. At least I know what is threatening me, which Beleg did not."

Halbarad took his hands, which were cold despite the warm air inside their shelter. "What must we do?"

"Let me rest now. We will see in the morning."

But Aragorn cried out and tossed in his sleep, and in the morning looked no better. "It's no use, Halbarad," he said. "I need all my strength to keep the power at bay. The others must go on and try to fetch help. Even if Elrond has not returned from his journey, only in Rivendell will I get healing."

Halbarad nodded and said nothing. He could see for himself the truth of Aragorn's words. He beckoned to Daeron and Rodnor. "Aragorn cannot travel any further. You must leave us here and get to Rivendell as fast as you can, the two of you."

Daeron's tired face twitched as he objected, "They will call me traitor. What good is my word?"

Aragorn drew from his neck the Ring of Barahir and held it dangling from its chain. The green gems in the serpent's eyes glittered as the Rangers gazed at its ancient design, symbol of the friendship of Men and Elves.

"Take this, Daeron. They will know you come with my good will."

"Rather that I have killed the Heir of Isildur and taken it! Give it to the boy."

"No!" Rodnor cried, astonishing them all. "Not Elves—not after what _he_ did. I can't go there, and I can't carry _that_."

Aragorn lifted the Ring in his cupped hand. "Rodnor, this is no thing of the Enemy's, and Rivendell is our only hope. Why are you afraid?"

"I don't know," Rodnor whispered. "I only know that _he_ had the same bright eyes."

Halbarad met Aragorn's eyes and read there his own dismay. "So don't enter Rivendell," he said to Rodnor. "But you must go as far as you can with Daeron. You owe it to Aragorn, and to the Dúnedain. Maybe you will find you can do it after all. It is your duty."

Rodnor swallowed hard, and nodded. "I understand."

So Daeron carried the Ring, tucked inside his weatherworn tunic. He and Rodnor took with them a small remnant of dried meat and oatcakes that still remained, and left a cache of fresh meat and a set of snares for the two who remained behind. Halbarad watched as the two faded into the distance, headed toward the steep climb of the pass. He and Aragorn were alone in the Wild with nothing but the wind and the stony mountains.

~oOo~

After two days rest Aragorn seemed to be better. Perhaps with the strain of traveling removed he would regain his strength, Halbarad speculated, at least enough to fight his inward battle. Hope gave him renewed energy that day as he hunted and gathered firewood, seeking to make their little shelter as warm and secure as possible.

That day, the sun shining bright in an autumn sky, Halbarad built Aragorn a seat of tree branches smoothed of their bark and covered with Halbarad's fur cloak. He gave him long straight sticks to polish into arrows, work to keep him focused without draining his strength, and noted with approval that Aragorn sang softly—Elven hymns in the High Tongue—as he worked.

Satisfied, he took their waterskins to the spring. But when he returned, Aragorn was slumped over, eyes shut, face wan and still.

"Aragorn" Halbarad grabbed his unconscious cousin's shoulders and willed him to wake.

Aragorn's ashen face remained still and set in dreaminess for too long—long enough to frighten Halbarad to his core.

"Aragorn, we need you. Do not leave." He hardly knew from where his words came.

Eyelids trembled and opened, but the grey eyes underneath gazed unknowing, unseeing. At last they focused, and seemed to recognize him.

"I saw Doriath," Aragorn whispered, "as it was in the Elder Days. No dream, Halbarad—I saw it."

"A sorcerer's trick," said Halbarad sharply.

"No trick. His memories live inside me now. So beautiful it was, more than any poet could say. But then there was blood, and murder."

Aragorn closed his eyes. Halbarad shook him sharply. "Don't go back to sleep! Stay awake! Fight it!"

The eyes flew open, and Aragorn lifted his hand to clasp Halbarad's arm. "Help me. Talk to me."

"You might do better with these arrows," he snapped, picking up a warped stick.

Aragorn smiled and looked almost like himself again. Heartened, Halbarad thrust the stick in his hand and began ordering him in his work. "You know how I learned to make arrows? As a punishment for leaving a toad in Idhril's bed. It happened like this…."

Boyhood memories rushed to his tongue, and he told tales about his father and his sisters, about digging clams in the river bed, climbing trees and chasing across the fields near Thurnost after the queen's falcons, crying as they flew through the great blue sky. "I used to imagine that one of them knew me by name, and I'd ask him to bring me luck with my sling. Sometimes it worked."

He kept a sharp eye on Aragorn for the rest of the day, until at last he could no longer postpone leaving him alone to check the snares for the day's catch. He hurried back and found Aragorn still alert, now occupied in repairing the bindings on his pack.

For the next few days Aragorn seemed to be improving again. Even his sleep at night seemed normal, and no more troubled than Halbarad's own. Perhaps the magic was exhausted in that one spell, Halbarad wondered. Maybe he will even regain the strength to travel. Looking up at the cold blue sky, he hoped that would be soon—for the winds of autumn were gaining, and the snowpack on the mountain tops crept down the slopes.

After a week, with alarm he realized that Aragorn was losing strength and weight. True enough, the food was hardly anything to put flesh on a man's bones. All the same, Halbarad himself ate every scrap, his nervous frame starved with watchfulness and care. But Aragorn was eating less each day.

"You must eat," Halbarad commanded him. "It may not be a feast in Elrond's halls, but it's the best I can do."

Dutifully Aragorn consumed an extra bowl of crumbled waybread and stringy rabbit, moistened with the fresh water from the spring and cooked to a mush.

Then, one morning, he did not wake. Calling his name, Halbarad shook him as he lay limp and unresponsive. With desperation, he threw water on Aragorn's pale face, and the eyes opened at last. He stared again with that unseeing gaze, and didn't seem to realize his face and hair were wet.

"They cut him to pieces as he lay," Aragorn cried. "My father."

"More nightmares, evil visions, put them from your mind."

"No! It's the truth, it's what happened," Aragorn said, focusing his eyes on Halbarad for the first time. "They butchered him, just as Elladan and Elrohir said."

"You are imagining it, from what they said. I wish you had never asked."

"Halbarad, I saw him. My father's face! Beleg's memories will bring him back to me."

Aragorn's face trembled between terror and yearning, making him look rather crazed. "I'll fix you a draught, like you've showed me," Halbarad said.

The warm drink seemed to help; at least the sick man lay quiet, but alert.

Day by day, Halbarad watched his cousin closely as he slowly slipped away. When Aragorn woke he spoke of terrible dreams of torment. But sometimes a look of peace came over his face, and calm soothed his eyes.

"What are you thinking of?" Halbarad asked him then.

Aragorn started and quickly composed his face. "Why do you ask?"

"Because you look, well, I wouldn't say happy, but more at peace. Not so tormented. Is there a way you can keep the dark thoughts out of your mind?"

For a long time Aragorn was silent, and Halbarad gave up expecting an answer. But then it came: "I think of her," Aragorn said. "As she was when we were together."

"Elrond's daughter, you mean."

"Yes—Arwen. I see her as she was the day we met, like a laughing girl. I didn't know who she was."

"Tell me about it. I know you like to keep things to yourself, but maybe if you talk about it, it will keep the bad dreams away."

"I'd just learned my real name, you know—just found out the day before that my name was not Estel. You don't need me to tell you how that made me feel—full of pride and joy, but also, well, overwhelmed. And wondering and bitter about having lost my real father—not just his death, but all my memories, hearing my mother talk of him as I grew. She never did, except to say that he was an honorable man who died well."

"I can't imagine it—how could you deal with such a mystery?"

Aragorn shrugged. "It was all I ever knew. Of course I wondered, but I learned very young to stop asking. Silence was the only answer I ever got. Besides, it wasn't as if there were other mortal children that I could compare myself to. How could I know it was unusual, living where I did, in an Elvish world?"

Halbarad shook his head. "It's astonishing that you are not even stranger than you are."

Aragorn chuckled. "I suppose so. Anyway, there I was, my head full of dreams and wonders, walking in the woods above the House, and I heard a voice singing, and there before me was a beautiful girl, laughing and splashing her feet in the spring, her dark hair streaming down her back. We spoke, and told each other our names, but she didn't say she was Elrond's daughter. Later I became very angry about that."

"You didn't know Elrond's daughter's name?"

"I hadn't even heard of her existence. Nobody's ever explained that to me, either. She said once there was a reason, but that she couldn't tell me."

"Elves," muttered Halbarad. "Everything has to be a riddle. Then what happened?"

"It was a sort of madness. I took her hand and helped her up, and she smiled at me, and I just lost my heart. I kissed her."

"And got slapped, I suppose."

"Oh, no. She responded quite passionately. But she laughed and said she had to get back to the House, and she would see me later. That's when I found out she was Elrond's daughter—that night, at the feast welcoming her home."

"Home?"

"From Lórien—she has lived most of her life there with her mother's kin."

"May I ask how old she is?"

A slow smile hovered on Aragorn's face. "You don't ask Elves questions like that. Or even _peredhil_. But I know she was born not long after the beginning of this Age—toward the end of the reign of Valandil, though she never met him."

"So she is three thousand years old. I wouldn't go near such a woman. I'd be afraid of being shown up a fool."

Aragorn's face was dreamy and far away. "She seemed as young as I when we met. That night she invited me to come to her room."

Halbarad whistled. "And you went, I suppose."

"Of course. Wouldn't you?"

"Not in Thurnost. I would risk my life."

Aragorn shook his head. "I don't understand the customs of my own kind. Among Elves, love is so much simpler. The young women in Thurnost are all but locked up, but in Rivendell the Elf-women are free to love just as men are."

Halbarad found this a shocking and disgusting idea, but he decided to hold back his opinion for fear of offending Aragorn. "Every man values the maidenhood of his daughter, as he should, for alliances and property are made through marriage."

"That's not the attitude among Elves. Marriage is for joy and companionship."

"What happened, then? Why did you quarrel?"

"I became jealous. I wanted to possess her."

"She had other lovers?"

Aragorn winced. "I don't know. Maybe, maybe not. I thought so at the time, but I'm not so sure now. Even if she did, there was no one special. She did tell me that. No, I just thought she should belong to me. I still feel that, I guess. But that is more than she wants to give, so she ended it. How can I blame her? What can I give her? And now Elladan and Elrohir tell me she faces a choice to stay in Middle-earth and become mortal."

"Would she do that?"

"I would never want that. I would never ask for such a thing, nor even hope to marry her. She is far above me, Halbarad. How can I tell you? She is the young and sweet girl I met at the spring, and she is much more. Like a queen, full of dignity and wisdom. I love her all the more for that, I suppose."

"I am sorry, Aragorn. I've never been in love myself, but I've seen what it does to others who don't get their wish."

"Like Daeron, you mean?"

"Well, I wasn't thinking of him, but yes, like Daeron."

Aragorn fell silent for a time. "It's not that she was indifferent to me, you know. I thought that once, too—that she was cold, that she had only been playing with me. But I don't think so now. If I had not been such a fool, it might have gone otherwise."

Halbarad thought that only made it worse, but he kept that thought to himself. "I've got to fetch the catch. Keep on thinking of her and keep your mind off those dark dreams."

~oOo~

Day by day Halbarad stayed at his side as Aragorn struggled against the power that sought to take him. Talking of Arwen and Rivendell seemed to be the only healing he could offer. When a dark dream seized Aragorn, Halbarad would with great effort wake him, and cry out, "Remember her, remember Rivendell," and sing what snatches of High Elven song he could remember, until Aragorn's grey eyes grew clear again.

Then, at night, they heard the howling of wolves in the distance. Aragorn started with fear, but then grew cold and grey, his face set in grim resolution. "If they come, you must kill me first, Halbarad."

"They will not come. Help is on the way. Cling to that, and do not think otherwise."

But Halbarad himself began to despair. Already Daeron and Rodnor had been gone three weeks, and unless they had run into misfortune, should have reached Rivendell days ago. Halbarad feared that they, too, were now dead.

_The old ones say you have forgotten us, mighty Valar, and I fear it is true. But if you have any love left for us, your exiled children of Númenor, help us now!_

Fighting back tears of despair, Halbarad went about his duties of the day—fetching water, hunting and foraging, keeping the fire smokeless and hot. Every day he would mount the nearest hill and scan the horizon to the south and west, looking for signs of rescue: Elves from Rivendell, or Rangers from the Weather Hills. Surely Ingold's troops had come from Weathertop by now. Had they, too, been betrayed?

Then one day he saw three birds high up in the sky, circling in wide circles but moving steadily from the south. He crouched in the deep heather, his cloak and hood blending with the dark green of the down, watching the birds as they winged ever closer, fearful that these, too, were spies.

The dark fierce shadows against the sky grew bigger, and Halbarad's heart began thumping. He leaped up in joy just as the cry reached his ears.

_Keee keee keee._

He lifted his arms and waved. Did they see him? Yes! Three queen's falcons dove through the air, crying and wheeling above him. Three times they circled, and they broke away, winging swiftly to the south whence they had come. And Halbarad saw, far off, the movement of a horse down from the mountain pass. Not far behind him others followed. He watched, scarcely able to breathe, as the figures crept down the hillside and vanished into the moor.

Halbarad traced their movement by the circling falcons, moving slowly back to the north as the horsemen progressed. The hours passed and he dared not move, watching, watching. If his hope proved wrong, he hardly knew how he would find the courage to go on.

The _clip-clop_ of horse's hooves warned him that the lead rider approached. At last, bursting between the low trees came a magnificent horse bearing a dark-haired man of kingly appearance, his rich cloak streaming behind him. He made straight for Halbarad and leaped from the sweating horse. Any doubts Halbarad had as to who now approached were wiped away by the sound of his musical voice, and the words he spoke.

"Where is my son?" he demanded, his compelling eyes boring straight into Halbarad's astonished gaze.

Halbarad held out his trembling arms. "Master Elrond, follow me."

Halbarad led him to the shelter where Aragorn lay, half-conscious, and the Master of Rivendell knelt at his side, grasping Aragorn's face with his strong hands.

" _Senya_ , wake up."

And the grey eyes opened. " _Atarinya_ ," Aragorn whispered.

Halbarad was still weeping with relief when the rest of the horsemen drew up to their small camp. There were Elladan and Elrohir and two other Elves that Halbarad did not know. And following them came his own father, Hallor, who wrapped his son in a fierce embrace.


End file.
